


Sometimes it's simply an accident

by sycamoretree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B on fire, BAMF!John, Explicit Language, M/M, Mystery, Protective!Sherlock, Realistic development of romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 81,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretree/pseuds/sycamoretree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a fight between flatmates. Then it grew much worse. While John is faced by a disturbing threat; will he and Sherlock admit how deep their feelings for each other run? Romance and mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The accident

They were fighting.

It had begun with bitter comments when John came home late to 221B Baker Street after work only to find out via the cellphone that Sherlock had refused to take a paycheck from Lestrade after the latest solved case.

John had been tired, hungry and annoyed, which quickly had made the whole situation worse, whereas Sherlock apparently couldn't understand why it infuriated John that he had declined the offer from the Detective Inspector. And so, the bicker evolved into a real fight.

"Sherlock, is it above you to accept money for your work? Because if so, are you aware that I slave all day just so we can pay the rent and eat and afford your experiments?" John growled as he tore off his jumper when he felt himself grow warm from the conflict.

Sherlock leaned against the kitchen table with his arms crossed over his chest and frowned at John's words.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You know that when we need money, I get money. And by the way, we haven't spent a penny on most of the components to my experiments; I'm able to get them for free."

John scowled and paced back and forth in the room. Truth to be told, he knew that Sherlock always paid his share of the rent and the costs for his cases. But somewhere, deep within lay a jealousy which now showed its ugly face. John was jealous of Sherlock's carefree lifestyle, and how unbound he was every day. Sherlock didn't have to meet people he didn't want to see and he could spend his days doing whatever he liked, or what he _did_ like; solving crimes.

And even though John now and then became a part of the thrilling cases, he was still chained to the everyday life; the one when he had to go shopping food alone, clean the apartment and work for long hours. Therefore, John didn't always have the energy to race after Sherlock and do what he too found interesting. And that made him frustrated.

"Don't you call me ridiculous when I'm not the one who constantly demands that I cross London to do something insignificant like sending an e-mail for you! It's getting tiresome of being interrupted by your texts when I'm right in the middle of an examination," John spat and that was when Sherlock stood up straight and fixed his ice blue eyes on him.

"I understand. I apologize for the inconvenience I've caused you and I will not do it again," he said sternly before he added, "I hope the hypochondriacs are fascinating enough for you."

"Do you think I work because it's entertaining? I'll have you know that we need a steady income to get by, especially when you're not taking checks!" John roared and marched to the wall to use it as an outlet for his rage. The punch bruised his knuckles and as he winced, Sherlock's indifferent voice pointed out behind his back, "That isn't working. You'll end up with aching hands and remain angry. People usually believe a pristine action can reduce their own feelings but they are wrong."

John swirled around and lashed out, "Stop deducing me! You are such a pain in the arse at times."

John had a feeling a line had just been crossed. Hurt flashed in Sherlock's eyes before he stalked towards him and ended up looming over John. There was no return now.

The fight grew dirty as both of them threw insults dripping with venom at each other. They uttered mean, cruel things to each other, irrelevant of the initial topic with Lestrade's check. That had simply been the catalyst and had driven them to the point where they revealed every bothersome thing that made them resent each other.

"I thought you understood what it would mean to share a flat with me. If you've found out just now, after two years, that you hate it, you are denser than I thought!" Sherlock retorted with a humorless grin and before he caught up with what he was doing, John grabbed Sherlock by the jacket, turned them around, and thrusted Sherlock into the wall. A dull thud and a surprised exhalation upon impact with the wall were heard in the now very quiet room. John released the suit but didn't back off as he hissed to the taller man, "Never fucking call me dense, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at him, clearly astonished by his unexpected move. A red colour had crept up the detective's pale cheeks as the fight progressed and now he only took shallow, quick breaths as his eyes practically scanned John. And by habit, John let Sherlock deduce him without interrupting. He patiently waited for Sherlock to decide what reaction he would have.

"I see you've reached the point when you've emptied your vocabulary and take to use violence instead. Very impressive. Or was that the soldier showing?" Sherlock asked in a hushed tone and lifted one eyebrow.

"Leave me alone," John said and retreated one step.

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped and pushed himself from the wall. Without looking at John, he stalked to the door and disappeared through it. John could hear the angry, heavy steps on the stairs as Sherlock went downstairs and at last past the front door. When the door slammed shut, John released a breath he unknowingly had held and rubbed his forehead.

"Oh, Christ."

Immediately he regretted the things he had said but was aware that Sherlock could hold a grudge for a long time. Had the detective been too wounded by John's insults this time to forgive him? But then again, John had managed to get along with Sherlock for over two years and although they occasionally got vexed with each other they somehow overcome every clash.

John's eyes swept over the messy room and his shoulder slumped miserably. One thing was sure, though. Wherever Sherlock had gone to sulk, he was surely not going to tell John in the next few hours, or perhaps even days. John had to wait for him to come back.

Without Sherlock in the flat to distract him from the real life, John suddenly remembered that he was supposed to work the next day and it was late. The problem was that John by experience knew he would have trouble falling asleep when he was upset and his mind was brimming with thoughts. And he really didn't fancy drowsing off in his office again.

With a tired sigh, he walked to the bathroom and began to brush his teeth when he in a flash of genius came up with a solution. In the open cabinet before his eyes stood a white bottle with the sleeping pills he had been recommended for his traumatic dreams of Afghanistan. Along with the cane, he had not used the pills after his first day with Sherlock. The bottle gave a rattle as John wrapped his hand around it.

"It won't hurt to take two and get some sleep," the doctor mumbled to himself and went to his bedroom.

***

Sherlock dug his hands into the deep pockets of his coat as he stomped his way through a dark and cold London.

He was confused by the way John had acted this evening. And apart from his brilliant deducting skills, Sherlock had trouble reading John's emotions. He may be a sociopath but that didn't mean he could prevent people from getting under his skin.

Sherlock sighed and watched white smoke appear before him before he raised his head and looked at the starlit sky. There was the regularity he needed right now. He turned into a deserted alley and walked briskly to keep warm.

His pride had been wounded by John's accusations, no matter how true they were. Sherlock _was_ accustomed to expect John coming to assist him with the different cases. But Sherlock truly valuated the doctor and if it was up to him, he would have preferred to keep John by his side all the time. But all the same, Sherlock had a _very_ strong hunch that John treasured his work in the clinic even though it sometimes made him testy. A doctor usually had an urge to care for and heal people. A respectable and altruistic job Sherlock himself could never take up. So why did it feel like this night's ugly fight was far worse than the ones before? Like both of them had gone too far with their insults?

Sherlock ruffled his dark curls as if demanding his mind to understand. Had his brutal honesty at last gotten to John and demolished the base on which Sherlock's only friend stood? Was it Sherlock who had done wrong, by in the first place reject Lestrade's paycheck and then describe John as an idiot? And to say the least, Sherlock had been quite caught off-guard by John's move when the ex-soldier had pushed him against the wall. If Sherlock hadn't for an embarrassing moment been subjected to the human feeling of shock, he would have been able to stop John. At least he told himself so.

Sherlock reminisced how he instead had sneered at the shorter but enraged man and further insulted him. That was when John once again confused him and acted like no-one else would. Sherlock had always been fascinated by how John's behaviour stood out from other people. But to see John give up on him and tell him to leave was an experience Sherlock found hurtful.

So he had done what John asked of him; gotten the hell out of the flat and now wondered in a silent and dark alley with rubbish on either side of him.

'Solitude is dull,' he thought solemnly and picked up his phone from the pocket to distract himself from the unsettling conflict. Ugh, a text from the archenemy. Sherlock ignored the message from Mycroft and went to check the incoming emergency calls. Of course, the verb _check_ could easily have been replaced by _hack_ and Sherlock's action was of questionable legality, but it was a time-saving method to see if there would be a potential mystery come morning.

As he scrolled, his eager eyes suddenly stopped when he read a call which had been made fifteen minutes ago. Someone had requested the fire brigade to 221 Baker Street.

At that moment, Sherlock heard sirens in the distance and suddenly he had turned around and hurried back through the alley with his heart pumping adrenalin and fear into his blood. He reached the road and considered stopping a cab but couldn't spot one. He swore loudly and relied on his ability to run instead. The wind played with his hair and the hem of his coat became smudged when Sherlock climbed over a small brick wall and used every shortcut he knew to get back to the flat and John.

As he turned around the last corner, completely out of breath and with a lump of worry in his throat, he was appalled by the sight that met him. The whole house was in flames and the windows crushed from the heat inside. Fire trucks were parked nearby and men with helmets scurried here and there. Apparently they had given up on putting out the fire in Sherlock's house and only concentrated on saving the houses beside it. A police car stood beside one of the red trucks and Sherlock discovered that Mrs. Hudson sat in the back seat and talked to a sergeant.

Without minding the gathered curious crowd, he nudged them out of his way and hurried to the car. Mrs. Hudon was dressed in a nightgown and covered by a blanket which she clung to as she sniffed in distress. Upon seeing Sherlock, she gave a cry and was about to say something when Sherlock interrupted her.

"Where's John?"

The old lady's expression froze and she stared at him with revelation in her damp eyes.

"I saw you left the house. But I thought John came after you. He is always with you," she let out with a whimper.

Not this time.

Cold dread crashed into Sherlock as he turned to the burning house. This one time, John hadn't followed Sherlock. And as a window in the attic exploded and the crowd cried out and backed away while the firefighters became more frantic, Sherlock decided to breach the guarded house.

One thought flashed through his mind though; why wasn't John outside and in safety?

Sherlock leapt between the trucks and was about to open the door when a body tackled him and threw him back to the street. Sherlock turned to look at the dimwit and saw that it was Lestrade. Of course. Only he would have predicted Sherlock's intentions and now he secured a firm grip around Sherlock to efficiently hold him back.

"You can't save your things! The roof is about to collapse!" the man shouted into his ear to make himself audible over the roaring fire and the loud creaks from the giving building.

"John is still inside!" Sherlock screamed and saw how Lestrade's face grew grey.

"But we were told the house was empty!" the man croaked.

And then the fire fighters urged everybody away to a safe distance as the roof caved in and waves of heat rolled of the open holes in the façade. Everything went silent. Sherlock stood still, completely numb and with a surreal ringing in his ears. Everything moved in sickening slow-motion and the world began to spin before his eyes. Black shapes ran past him, illuminated by the orange light of death behind.

'No.'

John wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead.

The arms around him let go but Sherlock didn't care. It was his fault. Because if he hadn't left John, the doctor would have stood beside him now. And he wasn't.

Unable to look away from the flames, Sherlock realized that together, John and he had meant life. But before he met John, the ex-soldier who had survived a bullet hadn't been alive. And Sherlock hadn't been either, no matter how many morbid cases he had solved alone. But together they had nurtured each other's vitality and shared countless of laughs. That was all gone now.

Unaware that he was swaying on the spot, Sherlock was about to succumb to the threatening emotional darkness when suddenly a booming voice travelled across the commotion and Sherlock immediately listened to it.

"Bring the ambulance here! We've got a wounded man! He's jumped!"

 


	2. The hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock experiences shock. John is badly wounded.

Sherlock ceased to care about other people for the moment. With frightening determination, he made it to the other side of the still burning house, no matter who he pushed out of his way.

But upon discovering the gathering of firefighters and ambulance personnel in the grass-covered backyard, he hesitated. Then he pulled himself together for the next trial on this awful day and approached the group. Commands were shouted and several men and women from the ambulance knelt and commented the state of the man lying on his stomach on the ground.

Sherlock swallowed dryly and cautiously drew nearer John to examine him from afar with sharp, merciless precision. Sometimes he really hated his fast mind and knowledge of wounds.

John was unconscious, not strange after a fall that high. He was dressed in his usual nightwear; white shorts and a blue t-shirt. But this night the entire back of the t-shirt was blackened by soot and clung to John's skin in an odd way. Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine as he put two and two together when he registered cuts on John's arms which bled profoundly.

John must have smashed the window in his bedroom with something nearby, perhaps his night table. But the immediate intake of air probably made the fire inside much worse which must have caused his back to get licked by the flames. From the cuts, Sherlock concluded that John had not had time to clear the window of all shards before he squeezed through it.

Sherlock would have found more facts if not the ambulance had arrived at that moment and made the whole gathering turn their heads towards the moving vehicle, and the panicked consulting detective standing in its way. Everything happened so quickly after that. John was moved onto a stretcher and Sherlock heard a faint groan slip from the wounded man's lips before he was ushered to the side by a stern nurse.

The thing was, Sherlock had seen hope and he would not let go of it now. John was alive and being rolled into the ambulance and Sherlock knew by instinct that John needed a friend near. Or well, Sherlock needed John too; to take in the living, breathing human and assure himself that this was not a dream brought on by the previous downright nightmare.

"Excuse me! It's my friend. I want to go with you," Sherlock called out in a desperate and very humane voice to a nurse inside the vehicle who was about to close the rear doors.

"Well, come on then, sir!" she replied and made a motion at him to hurry.

Sherlock had to endure a scarce space for his long legs, and bend slightly forward due to the concave side of the ambulance but he didn't complain. Not when John was half-dead before his eyes. The vehicle took off and the nurse on the other side put an oxygen mask on John's face. He looked so fragile as the nurse tended to him and yet somehow had time to throw a shock blanket to Sherlock and order him to wrap it around his shoulders.

Sherlock studied every feature in John with concern. Tears managed to trickle from the doctor's closed lids which were red and irritated, a present from the blasted smoke. Sherlock rested his elbows on his knees as he let the fingertips touch the opposite ones.

'A person who inhales smokes for a long time will most likely be subjected to coughing, irritated eyes, headache and poisoned lungs.'

He recited the facts to himself with faltering spirit as John finally began to regain consciousness.

***

John opened his eyes only to shut them again when bright light brutally pierced them and caused a throbbing pain in his head. But the eyes stung too and with that, John remembered the fire, the challenge to get out of a smoke-filled and partly burning room with sleeping pills in his system and then jump from a daunting height with only a patch of grass to ease his fall.

The fear returned and his whole body hurt almost the opposite way to when he had been shot in Afghanistan. His body was not cold, but uncomfortably warm, especially his back. His mouth was parched and his throat itched. He coughed feebly into the mask which was placed above his mouth when a hand moved it. Human curiosity made him try once more to open his eyes and see the person. A woman in a nurse outfit frowned as she adjusted the thing that would help him breathe.

"Calm down. Just breathe calmly," she lectured him and John became pretty put off by her unkind attitude. As if it was his fault his lungs wanted to be coughed up through an airway drier than a James Bond martini in a desert. So he turned his head the other way and caught look of a very still flatmate.

He observed the beads of sweat and the flushed cheeks on the usually immaculate, pale man and when he reached Sherlock's eyes he saw that the detective was watching the nurse across with a hateful glare. This amused John a little; that they despite the fight still could agree that a nurse was impolite. But then John began to wheeze out air and felt his throat constrict as the itch grew worse. His chest hurt and he had trouble breathing even with an adjusted oxygen mask.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing despite it felt like his lungs refused the air he needed. But in the midst of his torture, John saw through his lids a dark shape lean over him and heard that familiar and deep voice, steady as ever.

"John, I'm here. Stay with me, please. Look at me."

John obeyed and his watering eyes fluttered open. He astonished himself with the complete trust he had for Sherlock when it really mattered. His breaths became less labored. He managed a small smile inside the transparent mask and wanted to say something back but only a severe hoarseness came out. Somehow it reminded John of the way Sherlock had sounded when the Chinese man had tried to strangle him in the case about the blind banker. Suddenly a warm, naked hand enclosed his own and squeezed it comfortingly.

"It's alright. Don't' strain yourself. We're almost at the hospital."

Again, Sherlock had that unwavering tone, only it was spiced with something close to…softness.

John wanted to ask what injuries he had, how Sherlock was, and tell him that he wasn't mad at him anymore. But the energy level was low and the momentary adrenalin gone. John didn't want to retract his hand from Sherlock's. It felt nice and comforting. He relaxed his body and took regular, although shallow, breaths as the ambulance went on. And throughout the rest of the ride, his eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

Once they reached the hospital, John was being rolled to a secluded room to get examined. The personnel kindly explained that Sherlock shouldn't be there and disturb the whole process. John saw how Sherlock clenched his fists before he snorted and bent down to John's level.

"They can't keep me out of here for long. I don't care about visiting hours," he drawled silently into John's ear and his discontent was clear. But to the nurses and the doctor's relief, the detective left the room and made it possible for them to start tending to John.

Half an hour later it was decided that John should at least stay the night at the hospital, mainly because of the damage to his lungs. Furthermore, he had a sprained left ankle after the fall, a bruised shoulder which had hit the ground in an unfortunate way and some stitches were required to patch up the cuts on his arms. When they had removed the t-shirt from his back, John had stifled a groan as the burnt skin caught in the fabric. Something cool had been smeared on the place and a bandage was wrapped around his torso to protect the back.

Still, John considered himself lucky for having survived the fire at all.

The personnel carefully dressed him in a clean hospital gown and John reminded himself to never mock patients again when they complained about the silly clothing. Then he was taken to an empty room and put to bed as the nurse working night shift explained all the things he already knew; where the emergency button was, how he could lift or lower the upper half of the bed with a handy remote and that if he wanted to call someone and inform them of his state he could do so. John thought about Harriet for a moment before he discovered the clock on the wall beside him.

'Past 2 a.m. already? No point waking her up when I'm fairly okay. I'll wait until morning,' John thought and politely answered when the nurse briskly bid him goodnight and left him in a dark room.

John squirmed on the sheet and growled. His body might have been taken care of, but it protested whenever he moved _and_ when he didn't. The back hurt like hell and it felt like the flesh was painfully dripping off him and soaking the bandage, but John knew he was imagining it. He had been given some painkillers but they hardly seemed to work. He coughed and turned to his side to breathe easier as well as to relieve his back of some weight.

The door behind him creaked suddenly and a cone of light painted the walls yellow for a moment before the darkness settled in the room again. John didn't turn around but waited and soon a tall figure strode towards one of the two chairs and brought it to John's bedside with fluent ease. He propped down onto the hard chair and looked quite pleased with himself.

"Took you long enough to weasel your way into my room," John commented with a raspy but happy voice.

Sherlock shrugged and retorted, "Hardly. There are only two nurses guarding this area at night. I checked the hospital's routines while you were examined."

John laughed but only a horrible croak echoed in the room and Sherlock tensed. "How are you," he asked seriously and John knew he wasn't aiming at the obvious injuries. It was the internal state Sherlock was unable to deduce.

"I've been better. It hurts when I breathe and all I can taste is smoke. I can't smell anything and I'm getting a massive headache as we speak. And I suspect the doctor slipped either glowing charcoal or acid inside the bandage because my back feels bloody awful."

John paused before he continued with a deadpan tone, "So that settles it. I'm never taking sleeping pills again."

Sherlock smirked at his joke and replied, "So that was why you didn't get out of the flat earlier. I've busied myself with that particular mystery for quite some time now." Then the man began to study his hands with seemingly great interest. "For a moment there I thought I'd lost you, John. That was one of the most terrifying experiences in my life. And I'm sorry for the things I said to you before."

John was sure his eyes would have widened if they hadn't been affected by smoke, because he had rarely seen Sherlock act so…vulnerable. And then he completely understood the man's terror. As a sociopath, the sudden onslaught of strong and basic emotions must have startled Sherlock immensely.

"Forget about the fight. And we are both fine, so shut up now and let me sleep," John said with a hint of a smile before he yawned, righteously exhausted. He closed his eyes and felt himself drift off into the mist of dreams, only occasionally disturbed by coughs.

"John, can I stay?" the deep voice inquired and he mumbled back, "If you can endure a hard chair and nothing to keep you from boredom, be my guest."

***

Sherlock let his eyes sweep over the brave, sleeping ex-soldier and could still not understand that he wasn't dead. The events tonight had happened so fast that even he with his sharp mind had been caught off-guard. He resented himself for the way he had been utterly useless to John during the rescue; not even able to predict the possibility that John could have jumped from the burning building in the first place. The least Sherlock could do was to keep John company in the beyond boring hospital.

He pulled up his legs and placed the shoes on the seat, ignoring the fact that the chair became dirty. He often sat in this position when he was annoyed, bothered or sad. It was a habit he had picked up when he was a child and he had stubbornly never let go of it when he entered adulthood.

The pointers on the clock moved excruciatingly languidly but Sherlock never emitted even the faintest of huffed sighs in fear of waking John from his much needed sleep. And Sherlock couldn't fight the temptation to drowse off himself. He rested his face on his knees and folded the sides of the coat around the legs and fell asleep to the sound of a snoring John.

In the late hours, Sherlock was roused when wheezes invaded his ears. He unfolded himself within a second and fixed his eyes on John.

The doctor was lying on his back and shook on the bed as terrible noises came from his throat. This was a typical result of inhalation of poisonous gases. 'The victim can only take shallow, rapid breaths to compensate for a decreased ability to deliver oxygen to the blood,' Sherlock quickly thought and raised himself from the chair to better see John's face. It was becoming blue.

"Sh…lock," John let out in a whisper before he started to cough repeatedly. Sherlock launched himself to the emergency button but as he pressed it, he recalled the information he had about the hospital's routines. And as the seconds ticked by, he couldn't hear anyone come running through the corridor outside. Perhaps the nurses were dealing with another emergency, thus unavailable at the moment.

Clearly John had struggled for air for some time by now and he wouldn't cope much longer without help. The air his tired, weakened body managed to inhale through a cramping throat was not enough to satisfy his need. The pain in his lungs was most likely brought on by damaged cells which suffered from an inability to use the oxygen. This was not good.

Luckily Sherlock had never been one to acknowledge or respect the concept of boundaries or appropriateness. And so, he made his decision.

He would not endanger John's life by negligence again.

He crouched over the bed, caught John's wary look and said in a businesslike tone, "John, I will help you now. Is that alright?"

John nodded, or at least Sherlock interpreted it as a nod, because it could very well have been another coughing fit. Not wasting another second on watching John in agony, Sherlock gently moved John's head so it tipped back on the pillow. John's eyes were glossy and his skin hot from panic and fever. Sherlock used one hand to pry the lips apart and the other to hold the chin so the mouth would remain open before he bent down and placed his lips on John's. And then he exhaled into John's mouth.

At first, John's body protested, unused of getting air pushed into it instead of drawing breaths on its own, and he stirred. But Sherlock breathed in deeply with his nose and repeated the procedure. This time, John's will seemed to take control over his body and he calmed down. He accepted the oxygen to come not from his own inhalation but from Sherlock's lungs. The muscles in John's airway could rest for a while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely comments and the many hits, and kudos, etc! I will post every day since I already got 23 chapters on another site, so you're in for a treat. And I want you to know that I'm frequently doing research for my story, so for John's condition, I used this site: http://www.emedicinehealth.com/smoke_inhalation/article_em.htm Until tomorrow! :P


	3. The aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath, and surprises.

Soon, no trembles came from John and he could as well have been asleep, had he not determinedly, but not unnervingly, looked at Sherlock during the assisted breathing. Sherlock looked into John's brown eyes, too, and never stopped his steady breathing pattern.

Sherlock used his other senses in the meantime, deducing automatically. The other man's lips were cool at the beginning, although they soon grew warmer when Sherlock kept his pressed to them. The texture was surprisingly soft and pillowy, but then again, it had been some time since Sherlock had touched another human's lips.

Suddenly by accident, John exhaled through both the nose and the mouth and Sherlock tasted the breath. Smoke flavored; not like from a cigarette but from something quite as toxic. John whimpered pitifully and although the sound was muffled by Sherlock's mouth, he felt ripples travel to his own sensitive lips and he guessed that John was in pain.

He angled his head so he could brush the side of his nose against John's now reddened cheek in a soothing gesture. The skin smelt of ashes and sandalwood-scented soap. Sherlock didn't contemplate the reason why he acted so human all of a sudden for he only had one quest; to breathe for John and take care of him.

Unexpectedly, the door slammed open and Sherlock squinted at the unwelcome light as a nurse burst inside but halted her steps, probably when she spotted a man in a dark coat leaning over her patient.

"What on earth are you doing?" she shrieked and Sherlock felt John flinch and break the connection by turning his head from Sherlock's.

"This man has trouble breathing. Luckily I was here to help out while you were busy elsewhere," Sherlock sneered and sat back on the chair. John had ceased coughing but his breaths were rushed and inadequate.

The nurse cautiously appraised Sherlock before she said, "Who are you? No-one is allowed to visit the patients at night. I want you to leave now. I will call the security."

Sherlock caught the worried look on John's face before he hid it. He raised himself slowly to not appear as a dangerous murderer to the frightened woman, her shaking hands and darting eyes were enough signs of that, and subtly slid his fingers against John's shoulder during the motion.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, John's flatmate, now only mate since our flat is no more. And if I were you I would be a little more grateful for my presence, or else an unattended man in your care would have choked to death and you would have been responsible for it. I know this hospital doesn't need a lawsuit on top of everything, what with the bad finances and the impending reduction of employees," he pointed out flippantly and brushed away invisible specks of dust from his coat.

The nurse gaped at him before she retrieved her courage and stuttered indignantly, "Well, you could at least have asked for permission to be here and not sneak inside like a bloody assassin. Wait here while I go and fetch the oxygen mask." Then the woman stepped out but not before she had shot a glowering gaze at Sherlock and lit the highly offending fluorescent lamp.

John moaned and threw an arm over his face to protect his headache from the brutal light. "Christ, my head! You can't turn it off, can you?" he panted and his voice was husky from the damaged airways. Sherlock pouted glumly and sat down again.

"No, she'll only switch it on when she returns. You better use this time to let your eyes adjust even if it's painful. Besides, I don't want to cross her again." At that, John chuckled and moved his arm so his eyes were sheltered by the shadow from it.

"You, not wanting to disobey someone? Have you gone mad?" he laughed and Sherlock allowed him a moment to relish the information before he admitted, "Actually my purpose is to make her less angry with me, since I don't want to be thrown out of here and leave you all alone." He gazed again at John who sobered up and lowered his arm.

"Sherlock, thank you for breathing for me," he told him honestly and Sherlock cringed at the guilt that filled him. If it wasn't for him, John would have been alright and not forced to stay at a hospital in the first place.

"It's only what a friend is supposed to do," he muttered when John raised his eyebrows.

"Supposed to, yes. But not everyone would actually do it," John argued and turned his head towards the door as the nurse returned with the much anticipated equipment.

Once again, the doctor had made the consulting detective feel very astonished.

***

The next morning, John felt much better after sleeping with the oxygen mask on. His lungs didn't hurt so much anymore and the medical goo beneath the bandage on his burned back seemed to have reduced the throbbing pain.

He put the mask away and turned his head to look at Sherlock. The detective was not on his chair which troubled John a little.

After a while a new male nurse entered the room and promptly set to push the curtains away from the window and open it so fresh air could fill the area. John welcomed the cool air as it easily went down through his airway, but at the same time he found himself wondering if the room had held the scent of sleep and Sherlock. Sadly, his own sense of smell was still not working and he confided this to the nurse who smilingly informed him that within a week, his nostrils should have recovered.

After the nurse had changed his bandage, raised the bed, helped him to the bathroom and presented breakfast and painkillers to him, he left John with the promise to come back after half an hour to retrieve the leftovers. John reached for a glass of water to swallow his pills and groaned in pleasure as the cool liquid ran down his parched throat and eased the itch.

"That good, huh? Maybe I should switch from nicotine patches to analgesics," Sherlock commented as he strode into the room but went rigid and turned his attention to the open window. "This hospital is beyond idiotic," he whispered with amaze bordering on disdain, before he marched towards the window and shut it.

"Hey, they said it was good for me," John protested after he had finished chewing his toast.

"People who suffer from smoke inhalation need clean air, yes. Not polluted air from the area in London with the highest levels of car exhaust." John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's unrelenting attitude and took a sip of tea.

"Well, thanks for saving my life again, then." Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he approached the bed and removed his coat which he placed on the chair. After the eventful yesterday, John finally had time to study his friend. He had learned one thing or two from Sherlock over the years.

The shoes and the edge of the trousers were smeared with mud and the coat was tainted by streaks of dirt which stood out from the black fabric. The inside of Sherlock's white collar carried a faintly tinge of yellow and the front of the shirt which peeked out from under the jacket was wrinkled. Rare were the moments when John had seen Sherlock with unkempt clothes.

"You wonder why I'm not untarnished," Sherlock stated, having deduced John in the meantime. John nodded and Sherlock simply said, "I wouldn't waste time on cleaning myself if it meant I would have to leave you alone with imbeciles." John knew it would be pointless to defend the hospital's employees when Sherlock had his own opinion of them.

The painkillers began to kick in and John leaned back against the bed. He didn't mention the previous night when Sherlock had breathed into him. He had already said his thanks to the detective and the experience seemed like something none of them were particularly disturbed by and so, they would move on. But John felt in his heart a fond, warm feeling for Sherlock's action. Not many would have the courage or the stamina to actually breathe for another human for a fairly long time.

He recalled one time in the field in Afghanistan when he was busy wrapping a compression bandage around a corporal's bleeding thigh to save his leg from amputation when another wounded soldier started to wheeze out air with difficulty. 'Shell-shock,' John had thought and yelled to a private nearby to help his mate out by breathing calmly into his mouth.

The standing soldier had watched John with skepticism, muttered something about homosexuality and hadn't moved. John had been forced to run back and forth between the wounded men to save both of them. Afterwards, the unharmed soldier had been ordered to attend a lecture about life-saving and ethics. '

No,' John thought to himself once more. 'Not everyone would do what Sherlock did.'

Sherlock had begun to pace back and forth in the room with his hands on the small of his back. "Sherlock, what happens to our flat? Have you contacted the insurance company yet? Are all our things gone?" Not that John cared that much about his belongings; his life was far more important and the rest could always be fixed. Sherlock smirked but kept walking.

"From what I saw yesterday, I wouldn't hold my breath for 221B, if I were you."

Ha, ha," John said with irony in his hoarse voice before Sherlock went on.

"The building is probably only a ruin by now. And I talked to the insurance company this morning when you woke up. Everything seems to work out fine. Still…" Sherlock trailed off as he sometimes did when he rather used his quick mind than his a bit slower voice to complete his musings. John waited awkwardly for half a minute until he exclaimed, "Yes, what are you thinking about?"

Sherlock shook his head so the black curls swayed and fixed his ice blue irises on John. They carried an excited gleam which John genuinely preferred over the devastated and worried look he had seen the night before.

"I haven't been able to get the details yet, but there's always a possibility that the fire was a crime. A crime! I got a call from Lestrade who said that his team is about to inspect the house now."

Sherlock almost bounced up and down with glee and John pointed out with pretend hurt, "So you would rather investigate a ruin than keep a watchful eye on me?" At that, Sherlock stopped jumping and stared at him with a solemn expression.

"No, John, I've learned my priorities now. A friend comes first, then gruesome crimes." And then he hid away his excitement and asked slowly, " _Do_ you want me to stay here and keep you company? It wouldn't be a problem at all."

John felt confused. Sherlock had hardly ever been concerned about people around him and now he was offering to endure hours with close to nothing to keep his mind occupied with. And all for John's sake?

Perhaps Sherlock had listened to some things John had said when they fought. John was unsure if he should take this as a good or a bad thing, but what he was certain of, was that Sherlock deserved some normal amusement after his terrible night of fear.

"No, you go and see what can be found over there. I will probably only rest and phone Harry today. I assume you've already contacted my work?"

Sherlock picked up his dirty coat and threw it over his shoulders. "No need to fret, John. I've got everything under control. Well, except maybe a horrendous crime," he replied brightly and winked before he made it out of John's room with such grace that the male nurse almost didn't see him when he too went through the doorway.


	4. The surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock heads back to 221B Baker Street while John gets a visitor.

When Sherlock sat in the cab on his way to 221B Baker Street, he didn't think about John once.

John was finally not in immediate danger and would without doubt benefit from the prison-like establishment that was the hospital, just like any other ordinary human usually did. Sherlock himself abhorred the very idea of getting locked-up without being able to work and have to endure tasteless food _if_ he even would consider eating.

But he knew John wouldn't find anything to complain about the care and he had taken the time to research the nurses who had been appointed to tend to John. Neither George Boyle nor Anna Richardson had any dirty secrets in their records so Sherlock allowed himself to dive in to the prospect of a crime, perhaps even a personal one.

The cab came to a halt and Sherlock climbed out. The house was beyond rescue it seemed, what with the black bricks, the destroyed interior which was visible from the gaping holes where windows had been, and the collapsed roof that had left the attic in open air. As Sherlock wasn't particularly emotionally attached to the house, he let his eyes sweep over the front with a registering gaze which gathered possibly useful information for later.

He strolled forward and ignored the bright yellow plastic band that surrounded the ruin and made it clear that Lestrade's squad was there already. Sherlock put together his most sociopathic and haughty frown and marched through the open front door. He momentarily inspected Mrs. Hudson's hall as he passed it but saw no-one there. With slight disapproval and in his nose a pungent smell of smoke which apparently had settled in the walls, Sherlock jogged up the stairs and entered his and John's cold flat.

Officers with white masks over their mouths and noses and dressed in white or blue overalls swarmed the area which was covered in black soot and ashes. They took pictures, crouched by the skeleton of the deceased sofa or chatted with each other. Basically their efforts for the investigation were superfluous and hardly indispensable.

"Sherlock! You made it," Lestrade shouted from the kitchen and Sherlock could barely believe he had witnessed the able DI pale with horror the night before. But he supposed an experienced cop had a way of moving forward when one problem was solved. Sherlock walked over and on purpose got in the way of an eager assistant with a camera.

"Lestrade. Found anything useful yet?"

Lestrade lifted his arm and removed the mask. A speck of lather still clung to his shaved chin.

"Well, we've interrogated the lady who lives downstairs and we didn't found anything interesting in her rooms. We're doing your flat now but it's difficult when so much is gone."

Sherlock sneered and turned around to open the tattered cupboards above the sink. All his experiments had perished and vital studies of bacterial culture were interrupted. He would have to charm Molly in order to get new samples.

"Sir! There's an actual thumb in here!" a woman cried out and everyone stopped moving. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's not the thumb of a criminal or a warning from one. It's from one of my experiments. Do go on." He could tell the people glared at him with loathing in their eyes but he turned his attention to Lestrade again. What was wrong with studying how small a dead thumb would be after a certain number of days?

"How's John?" the cop asked with honest concern but Sherlock had since long learned the tricks.

"He's conscious and recovering. I'm sure you can get his statement this afternoon," he said briskly and Lestrade lowered his brows.

"Don't be like that. I actually worried about the man. We did a mistake yesterday when we thought John was outside, too," he mumbled silently.

"Good for you John is not one for retaliation. He could have sued both the London fire brigade and the police and been given enough money to buy one half of Buckingham Palace," Sherlock replied sharply and watched Lestrade go pink. "So, when are you done here so I can work?" he continued in an impatient tone as he observed one man thoroughly inspect the completely innocent television.

"Now, Sherlock, I'm doing this as a favour for you. Unless we find something related to the source of the fire in the next five minutes _and_ if you behave, you can be alone here while we move up to the attic," Lestrade reasoned as he pulled up his mask again and left Sherlock to tap his gloved fingers against the counter.

He thought about the fireproof vault he had kept hidden beneath the floor in his bedroom. All important documents and items would be saved from the fire, and that included the things dull people and authorities valued, and the very interesting things that only mattered to Sherlock. He guessed Lestrade's group of cretins hadn't and would never discover it.

Quite suddenly the excitement for his own search for signs of a crime plummeted even more when Anderson showed his snarky face in the doorway to John's room.

"Such irony, psychopath. The time something dangerous happens in your flat, we find no proof that a crime has occurred."

Sherlock thought about ignoring the comment but decided to use Anderson, who pulled off his white gloves, to vent his frustration. "That doesn't say much, Anderson, since the faint marks on either side of your nose suggest you have recently begun to use reading glasses. Was it hard to find a pair that suited your face?" he drawled back and several officers looked at Anderson with surprise.

Anderson, however pulled himself up indignantly and retorted, "Look what I found. According to this, your flatmate's blood type is B+. That could cause trouble someday so if I were him, I'd stay as far away from you as possible."

Sherlock's scowl fell but not because of the thing Anderson said, but what dangled from his raised hand. He stared at the black and silver thing and his feet moved of their own accord towards the arrogant forensics technician.

It was John's dog tags from his time in Afghanistan. On a small but strong chain were John's unique information, the Big 6, engraved in stainless steel and had survived the fire. Sherlock had seen it occasionally when he ventured into John's room to think. But this time the army necklace gave him no peace whatsoever.

He snatched the chain from Anderson's triumphant fingers, desperate to know if he had made a mistake; perhaps his eyes had deceived him when he was so far away from the object. But of course he had been right.

"Give it back! It's not yours to take!" Anderson barked but Sherlock only chuckled bitterly before he said, "What will Lestrade say when I tell him you've been tampering with evidence?"

Anderson sputtered and waved his hands in confusion. "What? How do you…? Evidence?"

"Yes," Sherlock said but felt no glee at all, only unpleasant unease, "You see, you touched this with your bare hand without realizing the fact that there's only one tag on this chain. The other one is gone."

***

"Yeah, so that's it then. Nothing to worry about. I'm already feeling better."

"'Nothing to worry about!" Harry exclaimed in the phone and John had no trouble at all picturing her stunned features. "John, I know you're not fond of attention to your wounds but this time is different. I'm coming over right after my shift."

John huffed and wrapped his free arm around his chest despite his bruised shoulder which protested against the stretching movement.

"No, please don't. I just need to sleep and take it easy for some time. And Sherlock is here with me so I'm never bored. Okay, sis?" he tried to convince her he was fine, which was true most of the time when painkillers inside his body and soothing goo on the outside reduced his physical misery. Otherwise he was in a optimistic mood.

"Your voice sounds so small. When I read the article about the accident, I could only think about the main character in that move, V for Vendetta." At that Harry's voice broke and John heard her cry loudly. Taking a look at the clock on the wall and shifting on the bed, John remembered why he disliked having to handle upset women; he usually felt so helpless and had no idea what was the right thing to say.

"Hey, hey, oh, come on, Harry, it's nothing like that. I'm basically only a bit black and blue. I honestly had to shoo away the doctors who offered to put me through plastic surgery out of pity. I believe they called my face 'not yet a lost cause'," he joked and drew a sigh of relief upon hearing his sister giggle and blow her nose.

"Shut up. Alright then, I won't visit you. But can you at least promise to call me every other day?" His sister was clearly not going to settle with anything less.

"Yes, yes, I swear on my honour. Take care!"

"Okay. Bye, bye!" Harry said softly and John hung up. He carefully put the phone on the small table and beside his bed and relaxed against the pillow he had placed between the bed and his back. That way his wounds didn't have to press into the hard mattress. He watched the clock again. He really wished Sherlock would buy him a new mobile today so they could keep in touch.

John was unsure if Sherlock had gotten the number to the telephone the hospital provided and either way, Sherlock was more fond of texting so John assumed the ancient dial phone sadly would be pretty quiet.

'I wonder how the investigation is going,' he thought when the long pointer finally announced it was early afternoon. He had his theory the fire was an accident. Naturally one could never be sure when it came to anything involving Sherlock, but sometimes it's simply an accident. Even the brilliant detective and his companion could suffer through one.

He had just indulged a glorious glass of water and was about to turn on the telly when a gentle but steady knock came from the open door.

"How intriguing. I can't see Sherlock anywhere in here and yet you claimed so to your sister. How intriguing indeed."

The smooth, aristocratic voice gave the visitor away immediately but as he entered, John was once again wondering how a well-tailored grey suit, a ruby tie made of silk, purposeful strides, a proud posture and a hearty smile could impress and intimidate him at the same time.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" he asked slowly and felt utterly exposed to the ever observant eyes of Sherlock's brother. Evidently Mycroft had already bugged John's telephone and John chose to not bring it up. Mycroft strolled over to the window and peered through the dirty glass.

"Sherlock never was good at being still and patient. He's even incapable of sitting by his only, wounded at that, friend's bed and accompany him. And that makes me worried about the imminent future for you especially, John."

John threw him a questioning look and cleared his throat. "I'm…I'm fine. And just so you know, Sherlock was here the entire night. I sent him away to our flat so he didn't leave me," he said. In the end, John was fairly certain he would always side with Sherlock against the big brother times two.

Mycroft swirled around and gave a laugh suited for an evil mastermind.

"Besides keeping watch over you for one night, what else has my brother done for you, hm? Has he informed you when he would be back? Has he booked a meeting with the insurance company, or begun to search for a new home? Did he talk to your lovely landlady to see how she is after the fire? No, my brother is occupied with a new case, so I'm here to set everything straight."

John didn't return the smile, nor did he reveal the fact that Sherlock had been frightened almost beyond recognition yesterday and saved John by breathing for him. But he couldn't silence one part of him that thought Mycroft had a point. Sherlock was an eccentric force of nature who rarely bothered with practical things. That was usually left for John to deal with which was why he had started the fight in the first place. Now, he had nothing against the duties of adulthood, but he was injured and exhausted. He needed help which Sherlock couldn't offer. His brother however did.

"What do you have in mind?" John asked with reluctance for it felt like he betrayed Sherlock's trust by engaging with Mycroft. On the other hand, his mind argued, Sherlock _had_ one time showed an interest to let Mycroft pay the rent in exchange for John acting as Mycroft's personal spy. Surely Sherlock wouldn't care if John allowed his brother to handle the future tasks.

Mycroft tapped his foot which resided in Italian, obscenely shiny, leather and his eyes became slits of shrewdness and eagerness.

"Well, for starters, with such a short notice I'm afraid I can only present to you a humble abode in a tower block. The upside is that there are no stairs in the flat and you will find a functioning lift in the house. Your sprained ankle and the damaged back should be spared from stepping between levels. You will owe me nothing and I'll take care of the rent."

John fiddled with the blanket over his legs until he became self-conscious under the man's stare and stopped fidgeting. He raised his brown eyes and spoke with suspicion, "What do you want in return?"

Again, Mycroft leaned backwards and laughed warmly. "Such accusation in you weak voice! Always a clever soldier after all, right? All I ask of you is to, how should I phrase it, let me survey Sherlock from afar. I know he will hate the idea but John, I'm not an enemy. Would you try to convince him of that for me?"

"But you're already watching him anyway, through the CCTV and all," John pointed out but Mycroft tsked in irritation.

"My brother likes to exaggerate, too. His childish paranoia is highly unnecessary. I just don't want him to avoid me only because I observe him when he's working with _very_ dangerous cases. And I assure you there are no cameras in the flat I've got for you two."

John felt calmed but knew there was no way he would get Sherlock to change his attitude to Mycroft. And had he had a normal flatmate he would have discussed the matter before a decision. The thing was, Sherlock either was busy with something else or didn't care about the obligations of everyday life.

"Fine, we'll give it a try. But as soon as we find another place, we're moving out," John yielded with a warning which Mycroft seemed to accept when he clasped his hands together.

"Marvelous! I'll have everything prepared when you're getting released tomorrow. Unfortunately I shall not give you a tour myself, since I'm wanted elsewhere but if it is anything at all, just give me a call," Mycroft smirked and placed a business card, with elegant golden garlands around the edges, on John's small table and flashed him a broad grin before he sauntered out of the room.

The bewildered John glanced at the card and reminded himself to hide it before and if Sherlock came back. He was quite sure he had just struck a deal with the devil.


	5. The beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new case is born.

"Sherlock! Don't be such a child! Give the dog tag to me," Lestrade said warningly and quickly directed one man to guard the doorway that led out of the flat.

Sherlock however had no intention to surrender the evidence, and John's property at that, so easily. Fourteen officers had turned hostile when he had openly refused to show the dog tag to Lestrade. And now they were slowly approaching the detective who currently had retreated to the back of the sofa-skeleton.

"Sure, so your competent colleagues can destroy the rest of the fingerprints and other substances that still might be on the dog tag or the chain? Or perhaps you will only misplace it this time and never find it?" Sherlock hissed with sarcasm and watched how two particularly large officers approached him on both sides of the furniture.

"Why are you acting like this? Has it occurred to you that maybe the tag isn't proof of anything? Why don't you relax a bit and call John to ask him about the item?" Lestrade tried with a more kind tone and Sherlock considered for a split second to toss the necklace out the open window which no-one had considered, but decided against it since vital data could be lost.

He sighed dramatically and handed the dog tag to the man on his left who thankfully had a glove on his hand. The people in the room warmed up immediately and shook their head at Sherlock's antics, or in Anderson's case; muttered with a whiny voice.

"Well, Jones, can you take this to the lab, please?" Lestrade asked a woman when he had studied the dog tag and put it in a plastic bag. Then the DI turned to Sherlock with a stern expression. "Happy now?" he said evenly but Sherlock climbed over his temporary stronghold with dignity and snorted.

"Will you let me work now?"

Lestrade seemed appalled as if his request was outrageous, before he bowed his head. "We need more to go on than that tag to deem this flat a crime scene. I'll tell you what, my group move up to search the attic and then you can do your thing here. Though, you really should call John and ask him if there's a logical reason why one of his tags is MIA. Otherwise a poor man in the lab has to run tests on a useless metal piece."

Sherlock didn't answer but his hand was already in the pocket of his coat dialing the number to John's hospital phone. He stared brutally at Lestrade until the cop caught on and spun around.

"Alright, guys, we're going upstairs. We could be on to something so get excited now."

Only a couple officers returned their boss' smile and the rest shuffled towards the entrance door. Lestrade followed them out and did a gesture at Sherlock that he was welcome to knock himself out.

"Should you find something, tell me before you dash off to God knows where," Lestrade added and closed the door.

As soon as the footsteps had died, Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear and waited for John to pick up. He decided to walk around in the rooms and investigate in the meantime.

"Hello? John, here," a hoarse voice said into Sherlock's ear.

"John, unless you're too tired, write down the names of all the soldiers you served with in Afghanistan and add people from other companies or countries as well. I'll explain later."

Sherlock heard John inhale and waited impatiently for the questions that would come.

"What happens over there? And Sherlock, that is classified information. I can't hand out identities of soldiers just like that without knowing what you'll use them for."

Sherlock ran a frustrated hand through his dark curls and said grimly, "We need to find those who for some reason could be enemies to you. I found something that could imply so."

"What? But Sherlock…" Finally a sigh of surrender. "So, what did you find?"

'Now we're getting somewhere,' Sherlock thought and walked into his own bedroom to retrieve the small vault.

"Your dog tags are now singular. One of them is missing and I'm certain it wasn't two days ago since I last saw it. Someone has cut it off and we need to know who. Think John; when has the apartment been unguarded these last days?"

"Ehm, if you were with Lestrade yesterday morning when you refused the paycheck, that would mean at least one hour when only Mrs. Hudson would be in the house. And then last night when I had taken the sleeping pills. Only the fire was able to wake me up then, so that leaves half an hour for someone to enter the flat, find my dog tags and start a fire."

John's voice sounded more and more unsettled as the conversation progressed. Sherlock understood perfectly. To have a stranger wander into your home while you're asleep was a worrying thought. With his shoulder, Sherlock squashed the phone to his ear and suddenly had two hands to lift the small vault from under the floor boards.

"Sherlock, I would say that scenario would be more believable if the suspect observed us in the flat. How else would he know I was sleeping with drugs in my system?" John reflected and Sherlock nodded despite John could not see him.

"You're with me so far. And add the possibility that someone could have entered the flat and found your dog tags yesterday and fiddled with them all day until last night when he returned to 221B and set the flat on fire after he had placed the necklace in your room. That means this _someone_ has planned the operation for quite some time and knew he had to be quick in case I came back. No-one can predict how I move and I think that was why the fire broke out less than twenty minutes after I had left the house."

Sherlock hoisted the vault up on his hip and took the phone with his free hand as he pushed the floor board back in place with his foot.

"Does Lestrade know any of this? You know he must be informed, Sherlock." Was that a lecturing tone in John's voice?

"He already knows too much for my taste. He took the dog tag and the chain and sent it to the lab. You'll never see it again, so all we have to go on are hopefully the clues in the flat or in the attic where Anderson and the other morons run freely."

Sherlock revealed his annoyance which made John chuckle on the other end. "Don't be so hard on Scotland Yard. They're doing their best and have a useful lab which helps you." John paused to clear his throat and Sherlock entered the draughty, black, and evil-smelling area that was John's burned bedroom.

"Fine, I'll ask for a pen and notepad and start on the list. Are you coming here soon?"

At the last sentence, John's voice carried a hint of hesitation. Sherlock detected the change immediately and stopped sniffing for gasoline or other flammable liquids in some spared spots in the corners. "What's wrong?" he asked briskly.

"There's something I need to tell you soon. I'd rather do it here than over the phone."

"Dear me, the dull 'we need to talk' conversation, is it? Can't it wait?"

"Sherlock, I'm serious. Get back here as soon as you can," John burst out and Sherlock stared longingly at the destroyed chest of drawers where John used to place his dog tags on the top.

"Give me ten minutes and then I'll take a cab. But it better be a good reason for trying to distract me from a case," he replied sternly and hung up.

Time to fling himself into a real challenge for once; to deduct from a scorched room and find anything that could prove the fire wasn't an accident and that John's dog tags had something to do with it. Sherlock could hardly contain his excitement but all the same felt a strange flutter in his stomach. Who would want to harm John?

***

John wasn't bored anymore. Not that he was cheerful or calm, but at least he had something to do while Sherlock deducted in their flat.

The news Sherlock had told him had worried him since he rarely got in the way of criminals. That was Sherlock's thing, not John who often found himself saving Sherlock from further harm. But John didn't socialize with villains if he could help it.

John couldn't believe what Sherlock had hinted at; that someone had been willing to become an arsonist to kill him in cold blood and only leave one dog tag as a macabre statement. John worried his bottom lip as he wrote down the names of three other American soldiers he had encountered several times in a mess tent.

The other idea about the dog tag was that maybe the culprit hadn't intended to murder John, only frighten or wound him. In that case, the single dog tag could be seen as an omen, a terrible warning.

John grew more confident he had made the right choice concerning Mycroft's offer. Surely no-one would be able to trace Sherlock and John to a flat administered by the British government.

"Ah, shit," he mumbled and relaxed his firm grip on the pen as the stitches on his arm began to prickle. He leaned back against the raised mattress and studied his long list. After having trouble thinking of soldiers who might have a grudge against him, John had decided to rather put down every name he knew than do the mistake of excluding a possible criminal.

At that moment, Sherlock came into the room like a tempest crackling with untamed energy and practically threw John off his track completely when he breathed out an apology. "Sorry I'm late. I had to drop off something at King's Cross station." Then he suddenly spun around to face John and wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"I know that cologne. Tell me he didn't…" Sherlock breathed out and John forced himself to gather his courage.

"Yes, that's what I wanted to talk about. Mycroft paid me a visit to see how I was doing. And he fixed us a flat which will be ready when I get out of here tomorrow. I thought it would be wise to accept his offer."

John looked at Sherlock's stormy eyes which flashed with emotions, thoughts and deductions. The detective finally plopped down on the hard chair but kept his back rigid and tense.

"What did he say? What was his _exact_ phrasing, John? I have to prevent this if I can."

Again, the Holmes brothers' antagonism towards one another both amused and bothered John.

"Sherlock, are you sure this is what you want to waste time on? What does it matter if Mycroft has a secret motive? The important thing is that we now have a new and temporary home. So, you don't have to think about these trivial obligations anymore and I can recover in a flat accommodated for my needs at the present. Everything works out just fine," John explained while he carefully searched Sherlock's face for the signs of fury or sulk.

However, Sherlock surprised him again when he exhaled loudly and dropped his shoulders. "I… suppose I wouldn't make the time to find us another flat. Not while I'm on this case. I understand why you made the decision, John." Sherlock gave him a quick, but reassuring nonetheless, smile before he leaned forward and eagerly began to read John's list which was upside-down for the detective.

Wanting to spare Sherlock's eyes, John turned the notepad around and silence filled the room while Sherlock's piercing gaze scanned the paper.

"You've divided the men into categories." It wasn't a question, just familiar observation from Sherlock. John nodded.

"Yeah, I figured it would make things easier. First comes the troop I was in, after that; other British companies we met in camps or travelled with to other destinations. Then I wrote down the few soldiers from other countries and at last the men I trained with before I went into service. Though, I can't remember the names of those I treated during combat but if you want, I can get in touch with my old commander and see if he can hand me the records. It will be hard but I can try."

Sherlock only hummed distantly and swept a finger back and forth over his lips as his brain worked and cataloged the names. John kept quiet and became mesmerized by Sherlock's intense concentration. He was certain that whenever Sherlock turned on that stare, the thing he looked at, whether it was an object or a person, would eventually reveal its secret other humans failed to see. And that was one of those things John admired when it came to Sherlock.

Finally Sherlock tossed the notepad at John's blanket and directed all his attention on John.

"Lestrade is coming here. He's going to hear you about the fire."

"Okay."

"Don't say more to him than you have to. Your voice is barely managing as it is. I need it to be there."

Sherlock removed his black gloves and put them in his pocket. Ever the doctor, John saw the _very_ white nuance on the skin that contrasted against the muddy coat.

"Sherlock, have you eaten anything since the fire?"

John consciously used a slightly concerned tone which served its purpose. Sherlock jerked his head and his lips were set in a thin line. "Adrenalin and fear is underrated as recreational substances. I feel fine compared to you."

"Sherlock!" John commented to make sure Sherlock was aware of the gravity of the situation, "You may have been able to keep yourself awake last night but if you don't eat something your mind will soon be affected. I certainly don't fancy having a listless detective by my side in this case when it seems I'm the target! Go and fetch something from the vending machine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but John wasn't buying his dramatic display and wouldn't ignore what he had demanded of Sherlock. Sherlock grimaced and frowned for a while. But to John's relief the detective got up and slowly, with frustratingly tedious steps, moved towards the door but turned his head to John.

"I'll have you know I refuse to tell you what Lestrade discovered in the attic."

Of course Sherlock would have to behave like a child and come up with something in retaliation!

"Is that so? Then I won't ask the colonel for the list of my patients in Afghanistan." John answered and watched two red spots appear on Sherlock's cheeks. The detective really must be tired if he couldn't even win a discussion. It was odd to not have Sherlock one step ahead of him. John would remedy that on the spot.

"And wash your face while you're out there. You've got soot on your skin," he added.

Sherlock blinked and retorted dryly, "Approximately fifteen more words and then your voice is gone. I suggest you keep quiet from now on."

Then he left but John grinned from ear to ear, partly because Sherlock wasn't angry with him for accepting Mycroft's invitation and partly because no matter what insults Sherlock threw at him now, the stubborn detective _was_ on his way to get nourishment.

John had taken care of the basic needs from a hospital bed; food and a home. Now both he and Sherlock could concentrate on the new mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, comments and hits! I'm glad this story is appreciated.


	6. The home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic scenes, and new flat.

The next day John woke up with a grin on his face because of many reasons.

For one, Lestrade had gotten his testimony the day before and while both of them knew it was unavoidable procedure and that John hadn't got a clue how the fire started, it turned out Sherlock had been bluffing about the _secret progress_ , because Lestrades's technicians hadn't found anything suspicious in the ruined attic.

According to the DI, the time was running out for him to establish that a crime had been commited if they didn't find any proof soon. Apparently, the fire brigade's own explanation was vague but deemed the fire as an accident. John had interjected that perhaps someone had used gasoline which quickly would have perished once the fire started. Lestrade had promised to look into it by returning one more time to 221B Baker Street and then left John with a wish that he would recover fast.

The next thing that made John smile in the bed even though his muscles ached when he stretched them was the phone call from Mrs. Hudson around 5 p.m. yesterday. Sherlock had sniffed out her current position and distributed John's temporary phone number to the little lady. Mrs. Hudson had told John she was fine but more worried about his health.

He had calmed her down and asked what she was planning on doing now that her house and additional income beside her pension was gone. She had answered with a hearty chuckle he needn't worry about her; she had enough money to buy a similar house and resume her business. Right now Mrs. Hudson lived with a dear ladyfriend until everything had been straightened out.

A quick knock on the door made John sit up as nurse Boyle entered to help him get to the bathroom and deliver the breakfast.

"Morning, John. Excited to get out of here today?" he greeted and held out his hand to John.

"Yeah; not that my staying here has been bad but two days in a bed is almost more than I can stand. It will be nice when things go back to normal," he explained as he tried to put some weight on his leg with the sprained ankle and found that he could manage to hobble to the bathroom on his own.

"Well done, John! Just remember to exercise every day but not to the point of straining. And I guess I won't have to remind a doctor like you to take care of your back so it can heal properly."

"Well, I _have_ treated burns before," John let out and closed the door behind him. A couple of hours later Sherlock arrived and proudly declared he had spent the night sleeping in the Yard's lab in order to be the first person in the morning to examine the results from the examination of the single dog tag and the chain.

"Our _friend_ was very rigorous. When he had taken the tags he spent the whole day removing every sign of fingerprints and DNA with various detergents. I'm afraid we've currently hit a dead end." Sherlock sighed sadly but then concentrated on supporting John by offering an arm when John was ready to stand and check himself out.

He gladly accepted it and struggled for a moment to zip up his new jacket Sherlock had bought together with a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a jumper from a clothing store where most clothes resembled John's old ones. "We need to buy ourselves many sets of clothes," he reminded Sherlock with a frown. He hated spending hours in warm boutiques while trying on hundreds of outfits that didn't fit in one way or another.

Sherlock drawled back, "The same goes for furnishing, I'm afraid. I refuse to live with sofas and chairs _Mycroft_ picked out for us."

And while Sherlock escorted John out to a waiting cab, he muttered under his breath, "Whoever started the fire will pay for destroying my experiments, the skull and my gun." John rolled his eyes but was amused by Sherlock's priorities that remarkably differed from those of normal people.

Once Sherlock had seated himself in the cab and told the driver their new destination, John interrupted the conversation. "Actually, can we first make a stop at a pharmacy? I have to pick up some drugs and bandages." The cabbie nodded and started the engine.

The house was enormous as it towered over the surrounding buildings but John was glad it was not so far from Central London and there was an underground station one block away. John staggered out from the car and clutched his plastic bag from the drug store while reminding himself to take some painkillers soon since his back had begun to throb after the unavoidably bumpy ride.

"You need help?" Sherlock asked briefly and once again John gripped the thick, black material around the detective's arm. He would rather stand the humiliation of being observed holding onto Sherlock by Mycroft's goon nearbythan take to use a cane again.

With a well-timed movement, Sherlock opened the door for him after he had pressed the right code slowly so John could see it too. It came as no surprise Mycroft had already given Sherlock the necessary information about the temporary home. They took the lift up to the seventh floor and found the right door. Here, however, Sherlock scowled and pressed the doorbell too hard and too many times. Some seconds later someone unlocked the door and it swung open to reveal Anthea with her ear pressed to her phone. John wondered if she ever put it away.

"Yes, hold on for a minute," she mumbled into the phone and covered it with a manicured hand before she lifted her gaze to Sherlock and John.

"Hello. Mycroft said you are welcome to keep the furniture but if you don't approve of them, please leave them here when you move out and don't ruin them. We have to remember the importance of recycling these days," she spoke as if she had learnt the words by heart and tapped her fingers restlessly against her jeans-clad thigh when Sherlock on purpose took his time to come up with a response.

"Fine. This seems…adequate. Thank you, Anthea, Helena, Venus or whatever."

"Neptune now, actually. A bit trickier," the woman retorted before she tossed a set of keys to Sherlock and raised her phone to the ear again as she brushed past them and left them alone in a strange flat.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to be our own guides," John joked and braced himself against the faintly yellow wall in the hallway. Almost immediately to the left he could see the kitchen with neither ancient nor high-tech kitchen equipment and a solid table big enough for both John and Sherlock and items such as books or experiments used during cases. He continued forward and opened a door out of curiosity.

A perfectly shining bathroom met him and looked like something taken from a home journal. Dusty black bricks covered the floor whereas light grey tiles on the walls made the room look masculine and soothing for tired minds. And that wasn't all. A large white tub with taps and a round shower nozzle would make it possible to both shower and soak oneself. John felt Sherlock's presence behind and knew his friend was looking for something to complain about.

"It looks very luxurious," John commented but Sherlock snorted so a few strands on John's crown waved.

"He's placed a rubber duck on the sink."

"Fine, it looks like shit," John said brightly and closed the door to stop Sherlock from continuing the scrutiny. He reached the end of the corridor where the way split in three. In the middle an arch in the ceiling posed as the natural beginning of the spacious living room which had everything they could possibly want; armchairs, a sofa, bookcases with copies of some of Sherlock's books on criminology and chemistry, a desk with a charged laptop that had the entrance to 10 Downing Street as a wallpaper, a thin television John knew he would enjoy when he watched games, and even some plants here and there.

But what really struck him was the incredible light. 221B had always been a bit gloomy for his taste but here the walls were invitingly white, a beige fussy carpet lay in the middle of the room and the three windows were huge. He was drawn into the living room and saw that he and Sherlock now had a balcony instead of a fire place. And the height of the flat provided a spectacular view over the busy London. So far, John was quite content with the flat.

***

Sherlock observed how John slumped his shoulders and understood he was overruled. The doctor enjoyed the idea of living here.

Now, Sherlock on the other hand was harder to please since he also imagined the disadvantages of staying here. He knew Mycroft would be breathing down his neck if he even for a bored moment considered shooting at the wall. Furthermore, he despised the thought of having families with uncontrolled children crowding the stairs or the lift which would force him to behave like a normal neighbor. One mistake and the whole gossiping building would hate him and John. God, why were people so adamant when it came to social norms?

"Now this, this I can live with," John said quietly, clearly more to himself than to Sherlock who looked up at the ceiling and stated, "It you're sure there's only one thing to do. Bring me a chair."

Naturally, John whipped around and blinked.

"A chair, John. There's one right beside you," Sherlock repeated impatiently and heard the small exhale of resignation before the doctor grabbed one of the chairs by the desk and moved it to Sherlock's side. Sherlock narrowed his eyes upon seeing John favouring his unharmed leg but hoped the reason was tiredness and not the beginning of another limp.

After he had checked the stability of the chair, Sherlock agilely jumped up on it and reached up to the ceiling. The bright convex lamp made of blurry glass was his goal. He began to carefully trace the inside of the lamp with his hand until he found the spy equipment against his fingertips. He took it, stepped down, and showed the object to John.

"A refined bugging device. I admit I'm a bit disappointed at you, Mycroft," he addressed the black box with animosity and John's eyes widened.

"But…but he said he wouldn't supervise us here," he exclaimed indignantly but Sherlock tilted his head and said, "He only mentioned cameras, didn't he?"

John closed his mouth, although his hostility to Mycroft clearly had grown considerably. Sherlock strolled to the balcony door, opened it and tossed the devious box as far away as he could.

"I expected him to have done something more than _decorating_ the flat but I never thought he would try to get away with such a poor hiding place. You see, John, Mycroft attempted to use reverse psychology, meaning he was sure I would search for his device but of course only look in inventive locations, thus forgetting the simplest of hiding places. He underestimated the workings of my hard drive."

Sherlock retreated inside, shrugged off his coat, and carelessly dropped it on the sofa.

"Sherlock, aren't we going to inspect the bedrooms and decide who gets which one?" John uttered as he as well took off his jacket.

"Mycroft would not bug those rooms. He's aware that it's in the living room I usually make progress with my cases. And I'll take the northern room, if you don't mind. I'm more comfortable in a dark room," Sherlock replied and John made a gesture Sherlock interpreted as compliance.

So the detective seated himself by the desk with the laptop and began to finally work with the case.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry for interrupting you but we need to buy groceries. The fridge is completely empty," John said after a while and Sherlock glanced at the clock on the screen before he turned his head. John's breath was labored and he leant heavily against the wall. Without being aware of it, Sherlock had been absorbed by the work for half an hour and John had left the room at some point and had just now returned.

"Indian take-away. Around the corner," the detective answered and then pulled out the unoccupied chair beside him. "Take a seat if you have enough energy to help me, or go and lie down for a bit. You're not alright yet."

Sherlock saw John grimace but then the doctor seemed to steel himself and slowly made his way over to Sherlock before lowering himself onto the chair.

"I'm making a chart of all the comrades-in-arms you've listed, and attached personal information to the names whenever I could find something on websites. Perhaps you know better where I should look, given the fact that you're familiar with military sites."

John brightened and his breathing evened out. That was good. "First of all I think we should send an email to the colonel and ask for phone numbers to the soldiers and the names of my patients. He trusts me but I believe he needs to know the reason behind my request, or else he'll refuse," he told Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded and pushed the laptop sideways so John could reach it and write whatever he saw fit. John lifted his arms but hissed and his face became contorted by pain. He dropped one of his arms and massaged it with the other hand. "The bruise on my shoulder. Feels like knives."

And then John addressed Sherlock with an depressed tone, "Well, if I only have one hand to use on the keyboard I might as well don't bother. Otherwise we would have to wait until midnight for me to finish the mail."

"The swelling in the muscular attachment will wane for each day that pass. You just have to give it time to heal," Sherlock said as comfort and then moved his chair closer to John's. "There. How about you dictate what I should write to make sure the colonel surrenders and at the same time you can watch how I move my fingers on the keyboard. I use a timesaving technique that after some practice allows me to watch the screen while I'm able to reach every letter I need."

John was not afraid of learning new things. If that was the case, Sherlock doubted the doctor would have served in Afghanistan.

So John got an expression of genuine interest and leant forward so a whiff of his scent hit Sherlock's nostrils. The plastic smell of new clothes, simple soap from the hospital and John's own smell. Sherlock had dissected the scent before he knew it but was unsure whether he had deleted or stored the information when John suddenly told him his login and Sherlock was forced to type in the right letters and numbers.

And in the middle of the email when John instructed him what he should write, Sherlock secretly felt at home again despite Mycroft's choice of decoration. But he would never admit that to his pompous brother.

After they had sent the email to John's former Commander-in-Chief and indulged a lovely spicy dish that had been delivered to their door, Sherlock at last gave himself time to venture into his bedroom.

It was considerably darker in there, especially since the walls were painted in a rich burgundy nuance which appealed to Sherlock and he was impressed that Mycroft at least had gotten something right. Heavy curtains hung over the window and a large wardrobe with dark brown varnish took up much space. He opened one door and saw a clean, accurate in size, suit with two crisp, white shirts on some hangers. Now this was a benefit; he wouldn't have to waste time on buying clothes for a few days and he assumed John would find something similar in _his_ wardrobe.

Sherlock swung around to face the bed which probably had cost a fortune. While the duvet seemed soft and nice, it was the bedframe that annoyed Sherlock. It looked like an old-fashioned tester bed, thankfully without a roof or ridiculous hangings but with one offensive, ornamented pole in each corner. Sherlock clenched his fists and shook from contained rage.

If John hadn't already gone to bed, Sherlock would have dragged the man with him and stormed out of the flat in protest against Mycroft's jokes, but as it was, Sherlock had to endure the hideous bedframe until he could find time to change it. So Sherlock found himself marching out of the room and heading for the bathroom. A warm shower would relieve him of some frustration and he would finally be clean again.

He locked the door silently to not rouse John and glared at the smiling rubber duck.

"You could never replace me skull, you PVC-filled toy," he growled at the duck but reluctantly left it on the sink upon remembering how John's back had shaken with mirth when they had first discovered the bathroom and the smug duck.


	7. The work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock work on the case. But it's the calm before the storm.

A week later everything seemed to be featured by normality that made John little by little forget about the menacing fire that had almost claimed his life. The former cuts on his arms faded until only white scars remained, and he no longer winced when he took a shower and felt the water pour over his tender back. He was keen on getting back his stability and so, he took short promenades every day until his ankle no longer failed him.

And only the day before, he had come back to the new flat and detected an ominous stench in the kitchen. Sherlock had made himself at home by slowly boiling something awful on the stove. John hadn't dared ask what Sherlock put in the pot but had instead announced that he had gotten his sense of smell back. A corner on Sherlock's mouth had twitched upwards but then John had left him to deal with his experiment in peace.

"Moving on to Major Patrick Jones then. Should I or you make the call?" Sherlock asked briskly as he dialed the number on his phone.

During the last few days they had contacted the men who had served with John after the generous colonel had sent the requested files with the men's personal records, and personally phoned John to inquire how he was doing after the famous bullet in the shoulder.

John quickly reached out his hand and gently tugged the phone from Sherlock's grip. "I think it's best if I talk this time. We should stick to the prepared questions and not pretend to be a salesman. Why did you do that to poor Billy?"

Sherlock shrugged and flippantly studied his nails. "People tend to let down their guard when encountering a person who normally is a part of their everyday life. It was the perfect cover; I actually managed to deduce things from his behavior while trying to sell a smoke detector. He isn't the man we're looking for."

"Sherlock, you said his family could be in danger if he didn't accept your offer! No wonder he hung up after shouting curses even _I_ could hear."

Sherlock tsked and gestured with his hand. "Well then. Be my guest. Let's see what you can find out by interrogating this major."

Major Jones' wife picked up the phone and told John that her husband had signed up for another travel to Afghanistan. John asked her to tell him that he said hello and ended the conversation.

"Nope, he's back in the field."

"We'll put him on the list with the others who have returned. But I won't write him off until we have talked to him personally. It is after all quite possible today to direct crimes from a distance, like Moriarty did," Sherlock muttered and moved the major's name to another list on the laptop.

"You're unusually rigorous about this despite neither we nor Lestrade's workers have found anything interesting, and the fact that this is all paperwork and has not involved any runs around London," John pointed out before he took a sip of his tea.

"It's always in the details the answer lies. I would not underestimate the importance of scrutiny when the risk is so high."

"Wait, what risk?" John asked with confusion in his voice.

"You, of course, John. You nearly died because someone is after you and I will find the one responsible for it," Sherlock said with sudden sharpness that shut John up, although he was impressed by the fierce loyalty Sherlock possessed. He returned to his tea while Sherlock took the phone from him, and found the number to the next person on the long list on the computer screen.

Later that evening, John caught Sherlock in the hallway with his heavy coat and gloves on.

"Where are you going? Should I come, too?" John let out and watched how Sherlock with elegant movements wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"No need for that. I'm only going to pick up something at King's Cross. It's got nothing to do with the case so you can stay here."

At first John felt disappointed that Sherlock would not tell him. Then he grew curious at what the detective was referring to, but by the time Sherlock unlocked the door he had become suspicious.

"Sherlock, you're not going to secretly hunt down some poor vet and question him in person? Because those blokes are my friends and I know you've barely left the flat since we moved in. You're getting restless."

"No, I do not intend to harass soldiers. Yet, anyway; we're not finished with the entire list. And you know I'll share any new development in this case with you since it does concern you especially. This trip is purely private business," Sherlock explained before he slipped through the door.

John absently closed the door behind him, went into his own bedroom, and drew the navy curtains so he wouldn't be disturbed too early the next morning by sunlight shining on his white walls. Then he fetched his new phone which he had purchased one day when he walked past a convenient store. Luckily the vendor still had had his old model and that relieved John since he had liked his last one. He dialed the proper number and held the cold plastic shell against his ear.

"Hello, Sarah here," a pleasant voice spoke and John cleared his throat.

"Hi, it's John."

"John! How nice to hear from you. How's the injuries? Any lingering pain?"

"I'm a doctor, too, you know. You don't have to exam me over the phone," John chuckled and heard how Sarah joined in. After the famous case of the Blind Banker the two of them had decided that it would be better if they stayed friends rather than date. John totally understood that Sarah was hesitant after being tied to a chair in front of a spear on their first date. And since he had fun working on the clinic he was happy that his and Sarah's relationship now was purely platonic and not awkward at all.

"So, what's up?" his colleague asked and John brought up a hand to rub his neck.

"Well, I'm feeling better for each day and I miss my work. Would it be alright if I return next Monday, but only work part-time as a start?"

"I won't deny it would be a help to have you back, no matter how many hours you would work. I think we can arrange that. But let's talk about you now. Really, how are you?"

John seated himself on the fluffy cover on his bed and said, "I'm fine. Getting stronger each day. Can smell Sherlock's experiments. And I can tell the scars on my back are mostly superficial and will fade eventually. But did you hear about my new home?"

They proceeded to talk about the flat and when they later said goodbye, John was truly gleeful. It felt good to know that he was missed and appreciated. Sometimes even John's ego could need some boosting. And he was more than eager to come back to the clinic; the only stable institution in his life which otherwise consisted of foot chases, nocturnal activities outside or research for morbid crimes. True, he never got bored in Sherlock's company but occasionally it was nice to do something normal.

***

Autumn was in the air. A chilling, penetrating breeze went through the busy street so Sherlock promptly raised the collar of his coat. He admitted he felt better than usual, warmer which he without doubt had the Indian take-away to thank for. Usually he didn't eat while on a case but he argued with himself that at the present the case was hardly hot, so he could have a meal now and then. But he was getting worried by the lack of results from his and John's research.

A woman with too many shopping bags bumped into him and he resisted shoving her back, though he did become less considerate of the other walkers around him and didn't care when elbows or feet came in his way.

'No! I will not ignore this case!' he thought, angered by his own failing faith. All around him, people began to dismiss the fire when no more evidence was found. Lestrade had nothing, the lab still hadn't given the dog tag back, but they had told Sherlock that something else could have happened that made the other tag disappear. And since Sherlock wasn't even hundred percent sure that John's big 6 had been gone from the flat, it was natural the case lost more importance.

What annoyed Sherlock further was that he, compared to Scotland Yard, was certain the fire hadn't been an accident. Though he was troubled that nothing more had happened in the past week. Not that he wanted anything horrible to happen to John, but he had expected something. Anything. A lost item or DNA in one of the rooms at 221B, people following John on his daily walks, and yes, Sherlock had made sure some of his friends amongst the underground network were tracking John from a distance just in case.

Furthermore, no unexplainable crimes in London had been reported to the police. But criminals always made mistakes. Somewhere in the course of events or the chain of criminals, something or someone always gave.

Sherlock stepped inside the grandiose King's Cross station and sneered at the never-ending throng of people hustling in the stiffing heat with their bags. He began the challenge of making his way through to get to the desk for the luggage storage.

Soon he too carried a black bag, though he was fairly confident what rested in his bag was far more valuable than what ten persons in here had together. He thought of the vault inside the bag which hid many things no-one besides him knew of, not even John.

Photographs from his childhood that he rarely looked at and yet found impossible to throw away, letters and Christmas cards from various family members that also had manipulated his sharp brain into keeping something so sentimental, and an authentic paper signed by a doctor that confirmed him as a high-functioning sociopath to use in case something required it. Sherlock had stored important documents in the vault, too, and a lot of money in different currencies such as pound, euro and dollar and prepared visas and identification papers for foreign countries if an emergency happened.

As Sherlock marched for the exit he suddenly heard steady steps behind him. He sighed in a bored tone and said out loud while keeping his eyes trained on the entrance to the station, "Don't you have anything better to do than stalking me, Mycroft?"

A sound of shifting fabric was heard and then Mycroft wandered around to face Sherlock. He wore a brown trench coat made of thick wool, a crisp shirt, and on his black tie a pin with the British flag. He also had gloves that were a shade darker than his coat.

"Really, Sherlock, my whole life does not revolve around you, no matter how stubborn you are on this topic," Mycroft drawled out before he lowered his gaze, indicating the burden in Sherlock's hand. "Pray tell, what is that you're trying to disguise with a ghastly bag?"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and was not fooled by Mycroft's attempt to change the subject. He too could dominate their banter.

"My old teddy bear, of course. He's been out in the world for a while. Quite the little explorer," he said and watched how red spots tinged Mycroft's cheeks. Sherlock smiled smugly; he had begun to irritate his brother.

"How's the flat I'm paying for?" Mycroft retorted but Sherlock didn't even blink before he answered, "Still habitable. Though the bugging device certainly was an unusual present."

"Oh dear, I guess one of my men left it there by accident," Mycroft mumbled to himself, a coy act Sherlock saw through immediately.

"So what do you want, Mycroft?" The man opposite rubbed his gloved hands together and for only a second his observant eyes darted to the large board behind Sherlock which made the detective raise an eyebrow.

"I apologize if you're feeling offended, but I'm not here to see you. I'm waiting for a train arriving with a dear colleague. It's very important I greet him, what with the impending meeting for…" Mycroft paused and shot him an amused look. "Well, it doesn't matter to you now, does it? Not when you're using every power to make a case out of this _accident_."

The last sentence momentarily threw Sherlock off the track. He quickly leaned towards the other man and hissed silently, aware of curious people who could be concealed in large crowds, "You don't believe me either?"

Mycroft sighed and scanned him with his ever perceiving gaze. "I know better than to doubt your deduction skills. But this time... Nothing more has happened. Perhaps the fire had a perfectly logical answer behind it which is yet veiled to us all. All kinds of people could have entered your flat and decided to, as they say, _mess_ with it. Teenagers, pyromaniacs, drug addicts. Wanted to entertain themselves, or weren't in their right mind."

Mycroft's voice died out and Sherlock furiously clamped his hand around the strap to the heavy bag.

"I don't think that and I'm going to prove it!"

"Sure, do what you want," Mycroft said haltingly before he began to walk past Sherlock and added just as he rounded Sherlock's tense shoulder, "Please be subtle, though. You're already causing distress at the Ministry of Defence."

Sherlock snorted and started to finally march towards the exit. Just as he reached the door, he turned his head and detected a unique brown coat far away. Apparently Mycroft was heading for platform 3 where, according to a big screen Sherlock had fleetingly memorized before he met his brother, a train from Cambridge soon would be. But then Sherlock went through the door and decided to take a cab back to the flat.


	8. The change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes back to the clinic. Sherlock works on his own.

Just as John had expected, Sherlock wasn't happy with his decision to go back to the clinic.

The very childish detective had altered between loud protests, sulking, refusal to eat, and promptly shutting his mouth whenever John asked him about his secret errand. But John hadn't let his behaviour ruin his own mood, especially since one part of him suspected that Sherlock in his unique way just wanted to let John know he was worried by the early return to the work.

Nevertheless, John felt ready so when the next Monday morning arrived, he left for the closest underground station that would take him to the clinic. While Sherlock actually told him that it would require too much of him to travel so far and work four hours every day, John hadn't budged. And that was how he found himself checking his watch when the last girl trotted out from his office with her mum before his break.

'12.30 p.m. What to eat?' he asked himself as he tidied his desk from papers when there was a knock on the door. He whipped his head up and discovered Sarah who stepped inside, dressed in a brown trench coat and a matching beret.

"Care to join me for lunch?" she wondered and wiggled her eyebrows. John brightened and reached behind him to grab his jacket from the chair.

"Alright, Sarah. How about our old place?" He meant the small shop nearby that was cheap but made adequate fish and chips. Sometimes John brought leftovers from home, or went to a restaurant but this day he was up for some fast food.

"Good choice. I'm wearing my fancy pumps today so I didn't really want to hike to the other place," she laughed and they left the building.

"Ah, Dr. 1 and Dr. 2! What can I get you?" the bald but very happy and bronzed man behind the counter exclaimed the second they entered the small shop.

"Hello, Samir!" John answered with a grin. He liked the spirit in the Lebanese. "Just the usual…" he began with a glance at Sarah who nodded. "Two big meals with some lettuce on the top and water, please."

"It won't be long," the cheery shop owner announced and disappeared behind the plastic curtain. John guided Sarah to a table outside so they could enjoy what probably would be the last lovely autumn day for a while and he truly had missed the sun while he was recovering in the new flat.

"Wasn't it strange that so many children came to us today?" he uttered to his colleague as he made himself comfortable on the bench. But Sarah threw her head back and laughed before she explained.

"I forgot to tell you about the hectic last week. Apparently the season for colds has begun. It's the northern winds that are behind it, if you ask me. Though, I hope the flood will decline before the annual flu strikes when winter comes."

John rubbed his fingers to get back some warmth in them. "Christ, I must have forgotten last year's children. But I never expected so many to be so ill they had to come to us."

"You were with Sherlock last year," Sarah interrupted with a telling frown. "I still remember how many times I had to wash my hands and change gloves each day."

"Oh," was all John could think of to say as a response and felt a little bit guilty. That time Sherlock had demanded he accompanied the detective as he solved _The Case with the Fake Firefighter_ when an admirer went too far and impersonated real firefighters because they were his heroes. It had been hard, even for Sherlock, to distinguish the imposter who was known for conveniently showing up exactly when one more pair of hands was needed.

Thankfully Samir arrived with their plates at that moment and saved John from the subject.

"So, how do you feel now after your first day back?" Sarah let out before she took a bite of her crispy fish.

"I'm okay. A bit weary but I suppose I have to get used to the pace again."

John didn't inform her how terribly his back itched and that his shoulder throbbed; partly because he wasn't much of a whiner and partly because he was aware that sometimes the places where injuries had been were itching because the body sent particles there to mend the old wounds. And he had to learn to move his shoulder in a normal manner so the tiny bruising inside could disappear.

"I'm knackered, too, to be honest. I can't wait until Christmas. I'll be at a beach with a drink in my hand and hopefully within eyesight of a good-looking lifeguard," Sarah uttered and got a dreamy expression all of the sudden, whereas John almost choked on the water.

"Well, eh, good luck with that," he mumbled and tried to not imagine his accomplished friend in a bikini.

"I'm sorry! Did I make you uncomfortable?" she asked just as bluntly as her revelation but John vigoursly shook his head. "Forget it. I'm an uptight Englishman who gets shocked in every conversation. Carry on." He gestured at her to continue sharing her plans for the holiday with him but to his dismay, Sarah wasn't so easy to distract.

"You're anything but uptight, John. Remember your flatmate whom you so happily accompany whenever there's a mysterious murder in the town?" she said with a grin before she wiped her mouth with a white napkin and grabbed her purse to pay her half. And come to think about, John could admit to himself that he already missed Sherlock, only a tiny bit but still. Perhaps he had gotten used of the detective's presence on a daily basis these past weeks. But now his day was over and he could head back to the flat, take some painkillers, and watch Sherlock make progress with the innumerous phone numbers.

***

Sherlock has gotten a case from Lestrade; a cold, boring one about illegal immigrants who five years ago had committed a series of crimes that the newspaper back then had written a lot about. Lestrade's proposed files didn't appeal to the Sherlock at all, but John would probably bite his head off if he didn't take on the case and provided some money for the groceries John kept bringing back to the flat every other day, even though Sherlock kept telling him he didn't require that much food.

Furthermore, Sherlock was a bit discontent with John's workload. John had told him about the increasing number of patients he saw every day and knowing that the doctor hardly would refuse to examine snotty children and unwell adults, Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before John chose to spend more hours on the clinic. That kind of stress was never good for a human who needed to recover slowly from serious injuries.

And as expected, Sherlock soon found himself working practically alone on the case and making all the phone calls to the men and infrequent women on the long list.

One late afternoon when John was in his room, Sherlock used his time to stay in the living room and call more soldiers and veterans. Quite unexpectedly, he discovered a man who had been involved in a pretty intense combat and afterwards had been awarded with a medal and sent home with a few fingers missing. According to the colonel's documentation, the soldier had refused to engage in talks with therapists and psychologists and more or less isolated himself after his return to England.

Sherlock searched his name on the internet and found out the hero nowadays openly declared he despised every authority in Britain.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he read the text on the screen and he experienced a flare of interest by the information but suddenly remembered what he had promised John; to tell him if something happened with their case. And so, Sherlock stood up from the chair, listened to the protesting creaks from his knees and began to march towards John's room.

Without hesitation, he thrusted the closed door open, only to see John standing with his back uncovered.

John stood between the wardrobe and the foot of the made bed, facing the large window so Sherlock could get quite a view of his back, and through the corner of his eye, he detected the rectangular mirror on the wall beside him that showed a reflection of the man.

John had his checkered shirt hanging by his elbows, which created a captivating band of creases on the loose, curtain-like fabric from the small of his back to the lower line of the belt in his jeans. Sherlock's thoughts about the case vanished, as if the new information about John without further delay needed to be processed by his mind.

He had never seen John's naked back, but it turned out the ex-soldier's body was in shape even though more than two years had passed since his retirement; without doubt the life style with a consulting detective was responsible for that. Now, Sherlock oddly enough felt compelled to study the body presented to him, to store how broad the shoulders really were when they weren't hidden under layers of jumpers.

Sherlock's sharp eyes scanned downwards and he was intrigued by how little John's shoulder blades stood out compared to his own, surrounded by muscled flesh as they were. Then came the surprisingly elegant sway on John's lower back and it occurred to Sherlock during this rapid and yet thorough scrutiny that there was not a hair on his friend's exposed back, nor abnormal colours on the healthy beige skin.

John turned his head a second later with confusion going on embarrassment visible on the face. Sherlock clenched his jaw upon suddenly sensing something strange coil in his stomach. A brief scent reached him and he recalled the fragments that defined the doctor; pleasant soap, food and the John-smell. Then John cleared his throat and brought his shirt back up. His cheeks had turned red.

"Sorry," he blurted out over his shoulder before he with fumbling hands started to do up his shirt and kept his head bowed down. The classical posture of a human who felt ashamed; Sherlock recognized this despite his sudden dazed state.

While the faint sounds of buttons being pressed through narrow holes filled the room, John added, "I, eh… I was only checking my back. You know, for scars. They are still very big." Sherlock flinched and steadied himself with a hand against the doorframe, practically clinging to it with long fingers. His brain hadn't even registered the scars that remained after the fire in the flat and that was bewildering to a man like Sherlock. How could he not have noticed them?

"They are not prominent at all. By this time the new skin is protecting the old wounds well. It always takes time for the human body to let the fibrous tissue do its work and then disappear. You will be fine," Sherlock found himself saying in a monotone voice and John turned around to face him, his arms hanging unassuming by his sides, one corner of the shirt's collar pointing upwards, and as the doctor lifted his head, Sherlock saw the very subtle glance at his left shoulder. The one where another scar rested.

John sighed and finally met his eyes, his face becoming collected again but carrying an almost pained look. "So, what made you dash through my door?" he asked.

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty, as his tongue felt slightly swollen inside the cavity of his mouth. And blood pounded in his ears which certainly was disconcerting.

"The scars don't mar you, John. So don't let them maim your self-esteem," Sherlock emitted quietly and those brown eyes stared back at him for a moment. Then the detective found the way back to his previous purpose and launched himself into the news concerning the case.

"I've found a suspect. Or so it would seem. Do you want to accompany me as I call him?"

John straightened his back and took a trusting step forward, seriousness etched on his face. "Let's head back to the living room," he said briskly and gestured to Sherlock to move from the doorway. Sherlock did so and walked back to the laptop that displayed the phone number of a certain Miles Stewart and forgot about the whole unusual episode upon hearing John's steady feet following in his wake. As always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting hot here, isn't it? Thanks for the many hits, kudos, and comments! I really wouldn't mind some more... Until tomorrow!


	9. The coldness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad things happen...

With fluent efficiency Sherlock reached for a cheap phone buried under a heap of papers on the desk, plopped down on the chair before the computer, and pressed the buttons for Private Miles Stewart's number. His mind was keen and sharp, ready to deduce but then he realized something.

John came to his side and brushed a hand over the chin.

"I think it's best if I make the call. And I will abandon the manuscript," Sherlock stated slowly and gazed at the doctor who shrugged but his tense stance revealed his nervousness.

"You do have a strong feeling it can be him then. We haven't used the pay as you go phone before and you've only once improvised in a call," John noted with a hushed whisper as if they were outside in a dark alley waiting for a criminal to expose himself; which they sort of were. "I can't remember a Miles Stewart," he added with an apologetic smile.

"Let's see if he recalls you. After all, he is the only one so far who could be the man we are looking for. I wouldn't want him to know our phone numbers, or trace our location," Sherlock replied and held the phone to his ear while crossing his arms and leaning back into the chair. Apparently John chose to remain standing, although he did grip the edge of the table and Sherlock found himself not completely unaffected by this sudden change with the case.

"Miles here," a bored voice drawled and Sherlock dived straight into trying the man's emotional state.

"Hello, Mr. Stewart. My name is Charles Anderson," John gave him a dubious look, "and I'm writing an article for the Daily Telegraph about the company you served with in Afghanistan…"

"Go to hell! You journalists are just as bad as the other bastards who secretly work for the government! You lot don't call me; I call you!"

Sherlock heard from the fainter sigh after the furious growl that Mr. Stewart was about to hang up. "John Watson!" he cried out and caused the edgy doctor to jerk but thankfully Mr. Stewart returned the phone to his ear.

"What about him?" he asked darkly and Sherlock was unable to determine whether the man was angry with the journalist or John.

"I interviewed him recently. The doctor recommended me to contact you. As I understand it, Dr. Watson treated you after the accident with your hand," Sherlock said, knowing full well that John, like him, was unable to tell if the scenario was true but he took a guess and could play the part of a mildly ignorant journalist who occasionally mixed up his facts.

A mutter came from the veteran and getting an ominous feeling, Sherlock pushed the speaker button so John could follow the conversation and placed the phone on the desk.

"Well, then he's lying or suffers from bad conscience. He never took care of me." The two men in the living room exchanged looks and waited for him to explain. "I was transferred to that company and spent three days there before the terrorists busted my hand. And all I heard throughout the three days was brag about their heroic army doctor. Dr. Watson, the brave. Dr. Watson, the hero."

Sherlock noticed Stewart's second mention of the word hero and John began to frown as the grim snarl continued with venom.

"The famous doctor who performed miracles and saved two fatally wounded men in the field single-handed. But that didn't exactly help me when I got in the way of a grenade on the third day. Because the brilliant doctor had thought it convenient to take a bullet to his shoulder the day before! So all I got was a pissing scared medic brat who wouldn't know the difference between nerve-ends and veins. Which is why I'm surprised Watson remembers me at all," Mr. Stewart rumbled and Sherlock listened to him destroying something made of glass.

He gritted his teeth to implore himself to stay calm and collect information while not blowing his cover. No matter how hard he wanted to defend John, it wasn't in a journalist's place to do so and one part of him relished that Mr. Stewart turned out to be quite talkative, even though his demeanour was hostile.

"I'm terribly sorry for my mistake, sir. I'm not familiar with the details concerning the military. Although, I admit this brings me to my actual reason for calling. How do you fare today? What kind of support have you received after your return to Britain?" Sherlock said carefully but was unable to use a soft voice to the vicious man who seemed to hate John.

"Want the ugly truth, do we? Well, put this in your patriotic article because I'm not embarrassed; I'm a wreck in a lonely cottage with liquor as my only friend. I've got no money, had to sell my medal, and can't get a job with a monstrous hand like this one. My wife left me when I came home. She was disgusted by my hand. And the snotty psychologists they sent after me were wrong; it doesn't get better!" Mr. Stewart spat and Sherlock began to feel as if he had underestimated the man. He could be dangerous, almost acting like a psychopath by making up his own world in that cottage somewhere in Britain.

He turned his eyes to John who now looked very troubled and unsettled as he tentatively, without making any noise, placed his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"Is that so? I'm getting interested in this personal approach. So your wife's leave didn't have anything to do with," Sherlock read the proper line on the laptop, "your _four_ long trips to the war in _three_ years, according to my sources?" To invade a stranger's life was always risky but could be revealing, going by provoked people's reactions.

"How dare you? I knew it from the start; you're a fishy fucker who's conspired with the others against me! Well, I don't give you my permission to use anything from this conversation in your fucking article, and if you call Watson again, tell him to leave me and my severed hand alone. I'm sure a shoulder counts higher than a hand in his book so he can fuck off. And you can bugger off as well!" Mr. Stewart screamed with a mad tone before he ended the call abruptly.

A shocked silence filled the room. For once, Sherlock was dumbfounded as he stared at the device on the desk whereas John put his arms on the hips and commented drily, "I never was one of the popular kids at school so I can't say I'm terribly hurt."

Sherlock pursed his lips and turned to the doctor. "This could be interesting. What did you find out during this conversation?"

John huffed with apprehension. "Wouldn't you already have figured everything out? If this is to mock me…"

"It's not. I do value your opinion," Sherlock interrupted as he intensely studied him.

"Fine then. Like before I can't for my life remember Stewart. But if what he said is true, and I only saw him in my company for two days before I got shot it's quite possible he resents me for not being there for him when he was hurt. But I believe he blames more people than me for his misfortune. And if he in addition to all this has avoided therapists and such, his clearly depressed mind could make him think he is still at war. For that reason he could be reckless and unpredictable," John trailed off and then shook his head while looking at Sherlock, as if to indicate that he didn't have anything else to say.

"Good, John. I think you covered Stewart's current emotional state very well. However you forgot to perceive his physical ability," Sherlock said and stood up to begin to pace the room out of eagerness to share what he had learnt.

"First of all he claimed to have a badly healed hand, and the documents we have say he lost three fingers on his right hand; the middle finger, the ring finger, and his index finger at the first joint. But I heard him hurl an item of glass against a surface with too much force than one can manage by sweeping with the arm. He used his hand. So no matter in which hand he had the object or the phone, he can use the impaired one for purposes that require some motor skills."

Sherlock altered between holding one hand to his ear while using the other to throw something invisible.

"That brings me to my second point; without doubt Mr. Stewart can't afford, doesn't want, or doesn't need prosthesis. So he would be able to sneak into our flat, steal the dog tags and use pliers or other tools to remove one of them, return to the flat with the stealth of a soldier while you were sleeping with pills in your system, and drench the place with probably gasoline, which often requires two hands. Ergo; he's not the cripple he makes us believe. And then there's the wife."

"What about her?" John asked curiously and Sherlock stopped walking with one foot in the air. "I…need data," he murmured and frowned. "A loving wife rarely runs off because of a disfigured hand. I think there are more to this story than Mr. Stewart let on. I upset him when I brought up her. The question is; was she only tired of waiting for her husband and devastated to know how much he had changed when he returned wounded from the last trip, or did she have another reason?"

John ruffled his hair a little and his shirt moved over his chest upon the stretching movement. "This seems bloody impossible, Sherlock. To find a wife we don't even know the name of, and dig up facts about Stewart's private life; no documents from the army would help us there. Can we ask Lestrade to assist?"

"He would not come within five feet of the case. To investigate a known war hero is always sensitive. And we still have no solid proof that Mr. Stewart even could be considered as a suspect. We are on our own, my friend."

John suddenly hung his head and sighed. "So it seems. He did sound pretty aggressive, didn't he?"

Sherlock sensed John's fear. "Don't worry, I will find his wife and other necessary data if you give me a couple of days. But I assure you I have never heard of a veteran threatening a fellow soldier in a vendetta."

"Well, you never read the papers," John retorted but lifted his head and the troubled expression melted away.

Sherlock smiled reassuringly at him and commented, "Besides, maybe we are fooling ourselves. We can't know for sure that it is Mr. Stewart who was behind the fire so I want you to keep calling the soldiers on the list. We are almost finished with the British ones."

John nodded and Sherlock was happy to see him immediately stroll over to the laptop and bring out his own phone.

***

Five days later a storm arrived to London and once the brutal winds had ripped the last brown leaves from the trees, snow began to fall. And not just a little. No matter how fast people fought to get control over the white mass, the whole center of the capital turned into an idyllic landscape, had it not been for the icy streets and layers of crammed snow on the pavements that the huge distribution of salt and sand couldn't beat.

The temperature dropped to below freezing point and every day the newspapers reported about elder men and women who fell on the slippery streets, cheeks that had been left uncovered and gotten frostbites, and the chaos with the gridlock that happened every day. The winter had inevitably arrived and taken the busy city as hostage.

A few days later John found himself struggling in the evening through the heaps of frozen snow. The sky was black but colourful lamps helped him see where to place his feet. He was on his way home after a full day at the clinic and although he had been tempted to take a cab he knew it would be nearly impossible to find an unoccupied one, let alone be able to drive through the paralyzed stopper of honking cars and buses.

So he had relied on the underground but in the warm train he had remembered that he really had to shop groceries today since he had postponed it for two days. And that was why he now fought his way from the supermarket with two heavy plastic bags in his gloved hands and his own satchel slung over his shoulder.

A gasp escaped him and he groaned when the breeze developed into a strong wind that carried small but hard crystals of snowflakes which stung his face until he lost the feeling. With clenched teeth the ex-soldier determinedly pressed on, comforted by the knowledge that the house was close.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" John growled as he deeply regretted his decision to not take the fluffy, windproof winter coat with a hood he kept in his closet. The jacket he currently wore didn't offer any protection from the piercing wind or the big flakes that soon melted on the thin material and made him wet and shivering.

And there, there was the large building at last! John breathed solely through his mouth to get the quantity of air he needed but felt relieved that he finally was home. He pressed the code, reached for the door and stumbled inside only to see a woman with a baby carriage enter the lift and make no room for another human. John helplessly watched the doors close.

He refrained from cursing out of frustration since the echo would travel far in the tall building. He glanced at his burden and then at the stairway. It was a long way to the seventh floor but on the other hand at this point John just wanted to get to the flat and defrost. It was better to move than wait for the lift and so, he tightened his grip on the bags and pushed out his cold chin.

'I was in Afghanistan and live with Sherlock. This is a piece of cake,' he thought to encourage himself before he began to climb the stairs. Once he reached the right floor he was thirsty, sweating on his back but still numb on the face. The thighs burned, his knees ached and his arms shook from exertion of holding the weight of canned food, vegetables, milk, and packages of meat.

With great effort, John took out the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He more or less shoved the bags over the threshold with his feet and entered with one hand on the wall to steady himself. His own bag dropped to the floor and John tried to hear if Sherlock was somewhere but could only make out his own labored pants.

"Hello?" he spoke and was met by a distant greeting from the living room. John's energy had vanished after the last thirty steps and he felt utterly drained and cold. So he did what he had learnt to do in the army. He called for help. "Sherlock, I've bought food. Can you give me a hand here?"

"Fine, fine. Come here, John. I've discovered something interesting about our infuriated veteran," Sherlock replied and John removed his damp jacket and threw it carelessly on the hanger. Never mind responsibilities. All he desired was to gain his breath, fall onto the sofa and hear what progress Sherlock had done today. His flatmate could and should take care of the groceries.

John shuffled towards the living room while rubbing his hands to work the blood into them. Sherlock sat by the desk and his fingers pattered on the keyboard. John could only see the back of the tailored jacket and the bobbing black curls.

"I'm here. Now tell me," he said breathlessly and then the detective began to talk to the screen but little by little turn in his seat.

"Mr. Stewart is in Wales. I'm not sure of the village's location or name but I did find out more about the wife's whereabouts and it actually surprised me that…"

Finally Sherlock tore his eyes from the computer and looked at John but his voice died and John was confused by his slack jaw and the widened eyes that stared at him.

"John, your nose," he said haltingly and John reached up to touch his nose. Something made his fingertips slick and once he held up the hand he saw that they were red.

"Oh, dear. I'm sorry," he apologized politely and took out a white handkerchief from the jeans pocket. He dabbed the area between his upper lip and nostrils while feeling embarrassed; with his frozen face he hadn't been able to feel blood trickle from his nose. When he was done Sherlock continued as if nothing out of order had happened.

"It's surprising that the missing wife works as a nurse. So it doesn't make sense that she would be disgusted by, as Mr. Stewart put it, a _monstrous_ hand. He's lying, which I of course already suspected so our main goal from now on is to talk to her and see if she can tell us more about her…John."

Sherlock said his name with a serious tone and gestured at his nose. John understood and whipped out the cloth again.

You've never had a nosebleed before," Sherlock reflected and John didn't like the frown that appeared on the man's pale forehead.

"Only as a child. But I suppose it's the cold air, and then the stairs would make the blood run faster and once I came into the warmth in the flat the skin over the shallow vessels burst," John mused with his doctor voice before he lowered his hand from the face and gave a small laugh. "There. Better?"

At that moment he felt something give high up in both his nostrils and then fluids flowed down and made his lips warm.

"John!" Sherlock called sharply and flew up from the chair. With four long steps the tall man was by his side and took him by the elbow. John feebly pressed the handkerchief against his nose and allowed Sherlock to guide him to the sofa and lower him onto it. The detective even went so far as to lift his legs until his whole body lay horizontally on the soft pillows.

"Pinch your bridge hard. That way you can easily prevent the blood from pouring out of the wound, and tip you head back," Sherlock calmly instructed and John didn't care that he as a doctor already knew how to treat a nosebleed. He complied obediently but grimaced in disgust when blood also started to trickle down his throat. He swallowed and could taste the foul, tangy goo on the far end of his tongue. He held the white fabric that was tinged with red to his nose and breathed through his mouth. Then he located Sherlock who sat perched on the very edge of the sofa.

"Danksch," John mumbled but his funny accent failed to make the detective brighten. In fact, Sherlock seemed a little shaken.

"Scherlock?" The consulting detective stiffened and raised himself but kept his eyes fixed on John. "Did you want me to do something?" he asked with a strained voice but John ignored it, thinking it had something to do with the unusual man's odd behavior.

"Take care of the groceries. At least make sure the vegetables and the milk get into the fridge. And put the meat in the freezer," John sighed, too tired to worry about Sherlock making a mistake with the food. His lids drifted shut and then he heard how Sherlock left the room. He relaxed against the pillows and felt his pulse even out. After a while he could tell the nosebleed was over, as he didn't need to turn the handkerchief so often.

A faint groan from hinges on the cabinets alarmed him momentarily and he warily opened his eyes. A metallic sound from the kitchen answered his silent wonder why Sherlock wasn't back yet; he was unpacking everything and had probably placed the cans in the cabinets. Grateful for his assistance, John shouted to him, "Can you fix me a glass of water, please?"

Seconds later he heard the tap run and tryingly lifted the cloth from his nose. Nothing streamed down. He stopped pinching and comfortably rested the hand on his stomach. Hurried strides came through the hallway and drew nearer.

"Here. And do not move too quickly," Sherlock advised as he leaned down and promptly thrusted a glass in John's hand. John expected him to leave, or resume the clever rant he without doubt had anticipated the whole day, but Sherlock simply loomed over John.

"Thanks for the help," John uttered and rolled onto his side and supported the upper body with his elbow to be able to drink. Then all hell broke loose.

Something opened inside his nose and when he by accident exhaled out of surprise, a shower of blood rained down and stained his chin, the fabric of the sofa, his hand that was clutching the glass, the water in the glass, the beige carpet on the floor, and Sherlock's trousers and shoes.

"Oh God, the carpet!" John moaned before he fell back against the sofa and in vain tried to find the semi-white handkerchief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear. Some drama, huh? Sorry for the cliffhanger, but on the other hand, you'll get the next chapter tomorrow. What do you think about my story? Send me a comment, if you're kind.


	10. The blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's nosebleed gets worse, and it frightens Sherlock.

If John thought the last time was bad, this one far exceeded it.

He felt how sticky, warm liquid streamed over the lower half of his face, found its way into his open mouth and ran down his chin to the back of the neck. The sofa!

In his shocked state he barely noticed how Sherlock removed the glass and knelt down on the bloodied carpet. Something white waved before his eyes and then John realized that Sherlock had taken his personal handkerchief and now pressed it to his nose.

"You moved too quickly, Dr. Watson," he muttered in a concentrated tone before he picked up John's cloth and began to roughly wipe the blood from his skin. The soft material moved across his face and he breathed through his mouth. Occasionally Sherlock's wrist bumped into his lips and he felt the warmth beneath the pale skin.

"Umm, John?" He lifted his gaze and saw Sherlock's ice blue eyes. They were uncertain. Sherlock cleared his throat before he let out with a small voice, "It's not stopping. It should by now but it's not. What do I do?"

John glanced down and caught look of a cloth that was drenched in blood but still held against his bleeding nose. A cold shiver ran through his body and his heart plummeted from fear. It was difficult to summon the strength to focus.

"Fetch the first aid kit."

"We don't have one. We lost it in the fire," Sherlock exclaimed with anguish but John shook his head.

"No. I bought one in the pharmacy after I was released from the hospital. It's in my wardrobe. There should be blood-stopping cotton in it," he said with a tired voice.

Sherlock scrambled away and not twenty seconds later he returned.

"Let me," Sherlock requested and took over the hold of the red handkerchief. Then he tore it from the nostrils and replaced it with two large balls of cotton. They tickled the walls in his nose but John sincerely hoped he wouldn't sneeze now and cause another flood. He tilted his head back, valiantly swallowed the blood that ran into his throat, and waited with Sherlock for the medical cotton to work.

Suddenly Sherlock ran his thumb over John's brow and wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered there. Perhaps that was what the high-functioning sociopath thought was proper to do when taking care of a patient.

"I'm sorry about the mess I made," John stated, indicating the many stains when Sherlock cut him off.

"Don't you think I always keep a bottle of biological detergent in my homes? You never know when that can come in handy."

They shared a small smile but then Sherlock fingered the cotton and hissed with dismay, "It's beginning to bleed through. Something is wrong. We need to call for an ambulance."

That if nothing else startled John. He chuckled humorlessly and uttered with a nasal sound, "Oh, no. You're not calling for an ambulance for a nosebleed. It was just cold air. Let me be here for a while longer and…"

"And completely stain our sofa until I can't clean it and Mycroft will hang us for high treason? You of all people should recognize an emergency." Sherlock seemed grim but John would have nothing of it. "It can be bloody stress-related! If you bring ambulance personnel here they'll laugh at a hypochondriac  doctor with a silly nosebleed."

Something gleamed in Sherlock's eyes and he bent his head to John's ear while carrying a smug grin. "Then I will call Sarah and make her come over."

John almost blew out the cotton balls in indignation.

"No! Absolutely not! She wouldn't leave me alone afterwards and you're not spoiling her evening," he growled in protest and Sherlock pulled back, serious again.

"Ambulance or Sarah?"

John bit his lip.

"John, after the fire I said I will take care of you. Don't hinder me. I can't stand watching you…"Sherlock looked away which truly made John mute.

Although he didn't dare move his head an inch to the side, he could see the detective from the corner of his eye. The otherwise immaculate man seemed ignorant of the blood on his clothes. His curls were in disarray and his face showed nothing of the previous glee when he had told John about Mr. Stewart. Also, given the fact that Sherlock had a piercing stare and steady, bloodied hands, John thought it peculiar that his voice which usually was deep, collected and loud now seemed to be only one step from whimpering. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, Sherlock was scared for John.

All of the sudden it occurred to John that his flatmate never had watched him bleed this much. Clearly it upset this experimenting-with-various-body-parts detective. That was all John needed to establish that the situation was dangerous. Something indeed was wrong.

"Call for the ambulance, then," he yielded and met Sherlock's burning pupils. So much relief filled them that John's heart ached and time stopped. Sherlock's head came closer with frightening speed until his soft curls brushed against John's damp forehead. And then Sherlock kissed him.

John stopped functioning.

All he knew was his pulse quickening and soft lips pressing down on his. He was in shock and lay completely immobile.

He didn't move his lips at all. But he didn't push Sherlock back either.

Apparently his mouth was open with the barest of cracks for Sherlock unexpectedly exhaled, with surprise or terror; John couldn't tell, and a sweet gush of breath entered his mouth. John welcomed the delicate traces of flavors after only tasting blood for several minutes. The sweetness was intoxicating, stirring even.

John remembered the night at the hospital, only this time it was different because the connection between Sherlock and him was now, by a few inches of fine skin sealed together, _intimate_. And that woke him up from the weightless state.

He pressed the head into the pillow so his lips left Sherlock's. John shivered and distracted himself by tugging at the sleeves on his jumper to roll them down.

'Blood loss,' he thought and did feel the warmth in his core turn cold. Surely it wasn't dread. It was blood loss.

He closed his eyes as a wave of horrible nausea hit him and he gulped miserably. He could feel Sherlock's presence nearby, and on his lips despite nothing touched them.

"I make the call," the detective said flatly in a voice that was void of emotion. His knees left the carpet and the trousers rustled against the expensive and now stained sofa. Sherlock walked out of the room, leaving John alone.

He felt awful, cold, and for some reason guilty. But most of all tired. Lulled by the buzzing from the abandoned laptop, John gave in to the tempting sleep and drowsed off without knowing that a ruby red drop escaped the would-be blood-stopping cotton, painted a small line on his for the moment ashen skin before it ended in the crook of his mouth where the lips actually had a healthy colour.

A cooling, damp material put on his nose woke him up and his bleary eyes could make out a black suit and nimble fingers. "John?" a frazzled, subdued voice spoke through the haze.

"Hmm?" he answered. A palm settled on his forehead and he enjoyed the cold skin until his brain started to work and he wondered if it was _he_ who was warmer than normally.

"Do not move at all. And do not use facial expressions; that could worsen the bleeding. The ambulance is on its way. Look at me, John."

The last bit was uttered with a combination of harshness and panic. Troubled, John found Sherlock's eyes under the black curls.

"Sherlock, I don't feel so well."

Sherlock's head fell down to the chest and John heard a ragged breath.

"Everything will be fine. Stay calm."

John refrained from nodding as he remembered Sherlock's command. "Is it much blood?" he asked faintly and Sherlock's eyes returned in front of him.

"For you, the cotton is basically a stopper and fails to make the blood clog. And we have to buy three new handkerchiefs, and possibly a new towel," Sherlock said and pointed at the wet fabric that lay over John's nose.

John's lips twitched upwards before he involuntarily anew felt himself slip away into the fog. "Do you think you can continue the briefing on Mrs. Stewart later? I'm rather tired," he mumbled and closed his eyes.

***

The evening was one of the worst in Sherlock's entire life.

Unable to determine why John bled and unable to help, fear clutched his heart. John had fallen asleep again, leaving the detective alone with his racing, incoherent thoughts.

After half an hour the doorbell rang and he dashed off to let in the ambulance personnel. A stretcher was rolled into the flat and Sherlock glared at the offensive device. He hated that John once again had to lie on one. After rousing John the nurses had asked him irrelevant questions, picked him up from the tainted sofa and asked Sherlock to join them. Ever thinking in advance, the detective had thrown his coat over the shoulders and snatched John's jacket so he could give him that whenever he was released from the hospital.

In the narrow space inside the vehicle, one nurse had administered IV to John and another one had checked the blood pressure and anxiously shaken her head. Sherlock had immediately informed them of John's blood type so that the hospital could make sure the rare blood was prepared for a transfusion. Meanwhile, John drifted in and out of sleep but every time he was awake his eyes sought out Sherlock's.

Once again the care staff refused him entrance to the examination room in the A&E. Displeased at their antiques, Sherlock seated himself in a waiting room and had to drum his fingertips rapidly against the armrest to keep himself still.

It crossed his mind that he for a short but lingering moment had kissed John. It had happened before he knew it and despite the pungent scent of blood that assaulted his nose, Sherlock had found it more pleasant than he ever would have guessed. There had been… sparks.

But surely it was only a pristine reaction of relief after John had given in to his suggestion they call for an ambulance. To be subjected to such a simple demand from his body confused Sherlock. He absently pursed his lips and worried about John before he brought out his phone and called Lestrade.

"Hello. What is it?" the DI yawned and Sherlock launched himself into explaining his purpose.

"John is a target. We are at the hospital. He has a nosebleed that won't cease. I need you for something."

"What? Is he alright? What…?" Lestrade sputtered before he took a breath and muttered, "What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock crossed his legs and glanced up at the ceiling where a fluorescent lamp flickered. "Find out everything you can about Private Miles Stewart who is somewhere in Wales. I need as much data as you can gather. John is in danger and I suspect Mr. Stewart is involved, if not behind the whole operation." The other man took a long time before answering.

"Are you absolutely sure you've got a case, Sherlock?"

"Yes!" the detective hissed.

"Okay, then I guess it's true. But it will be hard to convince to others to work extra for you. Unless…"

Lestrade tapped his fingers against something plastic and Sherlock growled back, "Fine! I will look into the cold case about the illegal immigrants! Hand me the files tomorrow. Now, can you help?"

"Excellent bargain, Sherlock. And mind your tone. It's late, I'm doing you a favour, and I will pay you for your work. Call me again when you know more about John," the police admonished before Sherlock hung up and clicked his tongue upon noticing that John had spent forty minutes away from him.

Not feeling up for another talk, he texted Mycroft and informed him of the situation and Mr. Stewart. One minute later a message came back; _Sending men to investigate. This is so much like you; to slander a war hero, but if you are_ certain _..._ _I will visit the hospital tomorrow_.

Sherlock put away his phone and flew up when a male doctor strolled into the fairly empty waiting room. In spite of himself, Sherlock acted like a predictable human and shook the outreached hand.

"Mr. Holmes. Your friend's condition isn't good but under control. We found that his blood contains large amounts of anticoagulants. We've sent blood samples to the lab to determine what kind of substance it is. This explains why Dr. Watson kept bleeding; his blood wouldn't form clots. The course of events is similar for those who suffer from…"

"From haemophilia," Sherlock finished for him and made an impatient gesture. "But how is John?"

"Tired, though we're giving him one unit of blood over the night to compensate for the blood he lost. And I will write him a prescription so the blood in time will return to normal."

The doctor hesitated before admitting, "Dr. Watson asked for you. He should be resting but I sense he won't until he's seen you. Come with me." While contemplating to donate money to the hospital for the man's spirit but for now settling for a silent thank you, Sherlock followed him until they arrived at a closed door. The doctor left and Sherlock sneaked in.

A lamp on the night table shone a dim light over a sickly yellow head. Sherlock stiffened as he was forced to see John looking small, broken, and pitiful in a hospital bed with a tube attached to his arm and blood slowly dripping into him. Sherlock drew near and searched his face for signs of distress. Clean cotton balls were stuck to his nose with tape holding them in place. The nose tip was red from unwanted attention and wrinkles had appeared on John's forehead.

He breathed through his mouth and indicated with his hand that Sherlock could take the chair beside him. He seated himself, adjusted his coat, and noticed that John wore a hospital gown.

"You did the right thing, Sherlock. They said that if I hadn't come here the consequences would have been terrible," he whispered and barely moved his lips. This wasn't how the vibrant doctor should be and Sherlock fisted his hands.

"I have convinced Lestrade and Mycroft to join us. You will not be a victim one more time to this maniac's games. I need to ask you questions."

"So it wasn't stress-related after all," John declared but then Sherlock wrung his hands and barked from fright, "You were poisoned, John! I underestimated the criminal, the threat against you, and I failed to discover the indications that you were becoming more tired than usual. This is a serious situation with you at stake so I sincerely hope you are willing to answer my questions!"

John looked at him with honest surprise before he gave in. "Fire away, then."

And no matter how much Sherlock tried to resist, he out of habit began to study John with a calculating gaze he used every time he interrogated people in cases.

"When did you first begin to feel exhausted?"

"I thought it was the work but now I realize I've never been so knackered; so maybe two, three weeks ago."

"Could someone have switched your vitamin pills to Warfarin?"

John scratched his chest so the neckline shifted and some golden hairs peeked out. Inexplicably, Sherlock's heart started to beat faster.

"How would anyone get hold of my pills? No-one has been inside our flat and if someone tampered with it in the store, how would he know which bottle I would take?"

"I see your point," Sherlock muttered before he added, "So, the same goes for groceries. If they were spiked I would be affected too and other people as well. And I don't suppose you've felt a sting from a syringe these past weeks, or seen an irritated spot on your body?"

Why did something suddenly surge through Sherlock upon mentioning John's body?

"No, I haven't. But the doctor said I had high levels of anticoagulants in me. How could I eat enough of something poisoned to achieve that when I've cooked different meals to us every evening?" John asked and tilted his head to Sherlock who thoughtfully dragged a finger over his lips.

"Every evening, varied diet. Different dinners… John! Don't you see? What if you indeed ate the same food many times, only not for dinner but for _lunch_?"

John locked his astounded eyes on him. "I _have_ eaten fish and chips at Samir's almost every other day. Do you think…"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. "Either he's aware of it and good at deceiving or someone has spiced the food with drugs without his knowledge. I will call Lestrade and ask him to search the shop and find Samir. But you do understand what this means?"

"Sorry, no," John said haltingly and frowned.

"The culprit and/or a companion watched you for a long time. They know your habits, where you eat and walk between the clinic and the flat. They might very well know the code to the building. I will have to make the management change the code," Sherlock mumbled to himself as he began to design measures to counter the increased threat against John. He needed to contact the underground network and get them to supervise John, and see if they knew anyone involved with arson and poisoning at the moment.

"So this is what it's going to be like from now on? Me being hunted by a ruthless, clever murderer who probably served with me in Afghanistan?" a devastated John emitted and Sherlock didn't answer because John wouldn't be comforted by lies. Instead he got up and moved to the door.

"Look, Sherlock," John said absently which brought him to a stop. "Don't go back to the flat. If the criminal knows the code… Just don't, okay?"

Sherlock snorted and narrowed his eyes but kept himself within John's eyesight so the doctor wouldn't need to move his head and disturb the nose. He spotted a remaining speck of blood on John's neck. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by an urge to wash it away but swallowed it down and rotated smoothly on the spot until he faced the door.

"I'm aware of the risk, which is one reason behind my decision to stay here over the night."

John was heard shifting on the bed. "And the other reasons?"

"I know how easy it is to enter a hospital without detection. Naturally I plan to keep an eye on you throughout the night so no intruder will harm you further."

"You mean you'll be here and watch me sleep?" It didn't take a genius to detect the hesitation in John's quiet voice.

Sherlock whipped his head around and said stiffly, "You disagree. Why?"

John let his eyes wander and Sherlock wasn't particularly amused with the lost eye contact.

"I can't relax if you're staring at me. Please take a seat outside the room and guard there," the doctor all but begged and Sherlock frowned. This wasn't how John used to talk to him. It was more like he conversed with a stranger, as if John was bothered by his very presence.

An emotion flared up inside Sherlock that people rarely thought he was capable of having. It was hurt.

He more or less stomped towards the door when John gingerly called after him, "Get yourself a coffee so you won't exhaust yourself."

"This is a case. Nutrition is unnecessary transport," he remarked tersely and disappeared through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, the story has gotten over 3000 hits now. I'm terribly flattered. Again, I want to point out that I'm not educated in medicine, but I try to make it seem realistic with the facts I have, even if minor details are inaccurate. Hopefully you'll understand that I'm doing my best, and that the story is above all fictional, so I believe I can have some liberties in my writing. Until tomorrow!


	11. The help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to bring in the cavalry.

Everything seemed clearer in the morning.

Perhaps it was the new blood. Perhaps it was the hours of appeasing sleep. But not mulling over which, John woke up to a light knocking on the door.

He felt warm again, still a bit tired but knew that he would recover in time, and was able to concentrate on other things than the merciless nosebleed, Sherlock's concern, and the actual…

John bit himself in the cheek to steer his thoughts away from _that_ particular event yesterday, sat up, and cleared his throat to summon a strong voice.

"Come in."

Barely had he uttered the words before Mycroft marched inside with an inauspicious mask of supremacy that very well suited his polished shoes and the thick, brown coat that made the tall but lean man seem broad and impressive.

"I am not sure whether I should thank you or curse you for driving Sherlock to the point where he asks for my help," the man said and John's eyes became slits. He was not fond of these kinds of confrontations so early in the morning, especially when he had been poisoned and nearly bled to death.

"Get to the point, Mycroft," he muttered and valiantly met the keen eyes that searched him like Sherlock used to do.

"You do understand that from now on you two will share this case with me, and of course Scotland Yard. We finally have evidence that these things that keep happening to you are not accidents, but very refined assassination attempts. I have sent some of my friends to 221B to further investigate the house and its surroundings. Samir Ghaddar has been arrested and is at the moment in police custody, though I will soon make sure he gets transferred to a place so my men can…"

Not so subtly, Mycroft stopped talking and instead began to smile at John. The doctor had finally seen a glimpse of exactly how terrifying Sherlock's brother could be. He straightened his hospital robe awkwardly.

"I don't know what you'll do, but please remember that Samir is my friend. Just be civil when you interrogate him," John begged while hiding the snarky tone. Mycroft kept smiling and tenaciously began to walk around in a circle but his eyes remained fixed on John.

"I have arranged a team of bodyguards and scouts who will protect you and Sherlock until we have located the person behind this fuss."

"Wait a minute. So not only may I be watched by criminals, but also by your goons? I live in crowded London! Surely this isn't necessary," John protested when Mycroft said with ice in his voice, "You are lucky to be alive, Dr. Watson! He almost killed you twice. I believe there are still scars on your back from the fire and Brodifacoum, _rat poison_ , coursing in your blood, according to your doctor. We cannot have someone so dangerous threatening a citizen in our community without dealing with it. You should try to see it from my point of view."

Once more, John felt rather defenseless against an eerily collected Mycroft but it was the next words that truly wounded him. "Sherlock is devastated, John. Not only did he text me, but he actually approached me when I came here to share the information about the case. If not for your own sake, so at least for his: do not fight us when we offer to lend you a hand and keep you safe."

John answered resentfully, "Don't you think I know how Sherlock is? You didn't see him yesterday at the flat! He looked like a scared, distraught boy! I'm always thinking about his well-fare so don't challenge me on that point. I just happened to for one single fucking second think about myself in this insane situation! I'm sorry for worrying about my privacy and bloody peace of mind in a vain attempt to keep a normal life and not panic!"

Throughout his outburst, Mycroft had observed him with indifference and wasn't affected by the harsh words. John panted and heard his pulse in his temples. Not only was his spirit was ruined, but he felt spent and angry.

"We will leave the flat alone as long as we are _permitted_ to survey the ventilating system, the entrance and the area around the building. Sherlock is often by your side in the flat anyway so I doubt anyone could enter without his knowledge. And I promise we will keep a distance when you are elsewhere; you will hardly see us," Mycroft commented lightly before his smirk disappeared.

"John, Sherlock has taken a blow to his pride by contacting me on your behalf but the man I saw outside this room is far more shattered than he lets on. I guess it's the nerves with all this ugly business. Do show him kindness, hm?"

Then the mysterious brother took up his phone and started talking in riddles to it as he exited the room. John was left with a theory he was slowly losing his mind because of all madness around him. A nurse entered; probably had been side-stepped by the magnificent official, and gently said good morning and started to check his values before removing the empty bag that had contained blood and the tube that led into John's arm.

Just as John began to relax again, Sherlock barged in like a minor tempest and ignored the nurse's reminder that it wasn't visiting hours yet but he rudely snapped at her.

"Keep your eyes on that bleeding arm, or are you too distracted to do your real work?"

John threw him a disapproving glare at his behavior but didn't think the detective noticed. Somehow Sherlock looked like a mess with pale features, bloodshot eyes, wrinkles on his coat which John deduced meant he had been sitting all night, and crazy curls that had been ruffled more than one time. Quite frankly, Sherlock looked unhinged.

The nurse finished her task, duteously asked if John was okay with this visitor, and told him the doctor would come by in an hour or so. Meanwhile, Sherlock shot glowering looks at her until the door swung close after her.

"Can you at least act pleasant? This performance was so uncalled for," John said and noted that Sherlock didn't choose to sit on the chair. Sherlock huffed.

"You have to buy raw spinach. I will pay for it but make sure you get it somehow."

John raised an eyebrow. "Great. To find spinach for some random experiment when it's winter. That will be fun," he uttered with a sarcastic tone and Sherlock buried his hands in the pockets of the coat and lowered his chin to the chest.

"Spinach is one of the vegetables with the highest levels of K-vitamin. You need that to help the blood coagulate," he emitted quietly and John could easily feel the unusual tension between them. Had one single, impulsive peck caused that? For he did suspect that was the major reason behind his and Sherlock's odd behavior this morning. They had after all dealt with threats and injuries before, but never something that could be interpreted as intimate.

"Look, Sherlock, thanks for being there for me yesterday. I admit I had a fright and when I do, I sometimes get testy. Perhaps you had one too," he tried friendly, wanting to coax Sherlock into talking about the subject with him. The detective's haggard head emerged from the safety of his chest and John curiously stared at the tinged spots on his cheeks that contrasted against his pale, smooth skin.

"Why, of course. I had to endure a terrifying lecture from Mycroft in the corridor about the importance of collaboration when the criminals have taken to use these methods to kill you. And I haven't even told him about the sofa yet."

"Sherlock, you're lying," John remarked and felt a spark of both humor and alarm at the detective's persistence to avoid the truth.

"Trust me, John; even though I might be quite familiar with crime scenes and bodies at the morgue, it can be…intimidating to see a long-time friend and flatmate bleed until he faints. There you are. The secret is out: I am only a human too, at times," Sherlock stated with a detached voice that wasn't proper for the honest words he was saying.

John gazed up at him with big eyes and replied, "I wasn't planning on mocking you. But I do want to ask you why you ki…"

***

Sherlock held his breath, felt his cheeks change from pink to red when old shoes and shuffling steps interrupted them.

"Morning, John. Sherlock," DI Lestrade greeted, unaware that he had just entered a lair of thick, unresolved suspense.

"Hello," John said fleetingly and gave a wave with his hand whereas Sherlock sniffed and began to deduce the cop from his appearance. Sprawling hair indicated a full night's sleep instead of working on the case. Bad. A gush of well-known cologne: Lestrade had encountered Mycroft outside. The man moved to John's side and held out an open box with green grapes.

"Just a little something," Lestrade muttered and Sherlock let out a haughty chuckle.

"My God, Lestrade! Can you get more boring and predictable?" Once more John looked at him with something Sherlock found easier to take than the big, hazy, brown eyes.

"Thank you. It was very _kind_ ," John said pointedly and Lestrade shrugged.

"It was either that or flowers, so I figured something edible and aesthetically could serve two purposes."

John put the grapes on the night table before clasping his hands before him. "I suppose you're not only here to bring me fruit," he hinted and Sherlock found himself incapable of stopping another snarl. He wanted Lestrade to do what he had come for and then go so John could rest and so he could make peace with the doctor in order to work together on the case. Thank goodness at least the colour had returned to John's face after the night. Sherlock found himself preferring a healthy-looking John over the weak ghost covered in blood from yesterday.

"What's with him?" Lestrade asked John and pointed a thumb in the detective's direction, as if he wasn't able to speak for himself!

"It's a lot with this case," John said, clearly not delving any further into the truth, which confused Sherlock. Was John protecting him from exposure? Sherlock floated closer to John's bedside to examine his features, wanting to draw a conclusion from his friend. Neither one of the other men acknowledged his ministrations.

"Apparently I'm expected to send a daily report of the progress with the case to Sherlock's brother. I hate paperwork but there was no way out of it. Anyway, I'm off to Wales. A team waits for me there so what I want to know is everything you've got on this Miles Stewart."

"His voice sounded harsh and he had a bad temper, at least when Sherlock spoke with him. According to Stewart he was in a cottage and I don't think he was lying about that. Also, he's missing some fingers but we have this idea that he maybe hasn't prosthesis because he can use both his hands. As for me, I deem him emotionally unstable and depressed. He's not likely to have a bunch of mates around him," John reeled off and Sherlock was impressed that John had remembered all this after the awful nosebleed.

He watched over John like a hawk in case the doctor got tired with the questions from Lestrade. "That will help us identify him. And Mycroft said he could dig up a photograph of Stewart from the military personnel records. Have you got anything else for me?"

John tilted his head towards Sherlock and his blonde hair waved elegantly. Sherlock held his breath again but John was unfazed by the impact he had had on the detective. "Sherlock found data about Mrs. Stewart. Perhaps she could tell you more about her husband if you find her. She…" John faltered and stripes of creases appeared on his forehead.

"Sherlock, what was she?" There were those brown wells again. Sherlock gritted his teeth and impatiently pressed his heel into the night table.

"She is a nurse, Lestrade, and has left her husband. So it doesn't make sense that she would be discouraged by a maimed hand. She works at the Nevill Hall Hospital in Abergavenny. For the moment I don't know anything else." Lestrade sent a searching glance at him, probably to establish that he wasn't hiding any details.

"Sounds promising. I'll call you when I've met her. Oh, and Sherlock, here are the files," Lestrade smirked as he took out some files from under his coat and held out them to Sherlock. Sherlock snatched them from the DI's fingers and was ready to shoo him out so he could start his journey to Wales as fast as possible but John interfered.

"Lestrade."

The man turned his face to the doctor.

"Stewart is a damaged veteran from a war and he's stated that he despises every British authority. He could have weapons so you and your team better be careful."

"Blimey, I almost forgot! Thanks for reminding me by bringing up the war," Lestrade exclaimed and picked up a small, transparent bag from his pocket. "Consider this as an amulet. We're done with it so maybe it can protect you. Or am I wrong that soldiers sometimes are superstitious?"

He tossed the bag to John who caught it and Sherlock saw, through the plastic material, John's dog tag.

"My, my. Isn't this a far more original gift, Lestrade. I knew you had it in you," Sherlock drawled but to his chagrin no-one graced him with a retort.

"Wow, thanks! I think I will feel calmer with both my tags," John smiled and dragged a thumb over the metal through the plastic. Lestrade bid them farewell and left the room. Immediately John rotated his torso to Sherlock and frowned.

"Why are you so…sociopathic this morning to everybody? Is it just because you kissed me?"

There. The question hung in the air and Sherlock didn't dare try to solve the swirling puzzle inside him that overall constituted of fragments or memories of John. It became too consuming for him. "Please, John, not here," he tried gingerly and John threw up his hands in the air.

"Fine! Ignore the elephant in the room and hope for a change of subject. Have you eaten?"

Thrown off his track by John's hard, unrelenting tone Sherlock could only shake his head. Briefly, John looked at him and said a bit more gently, "Then you at best haven't eaten anything in the last twenty hours; that is if you had lunch yesterday when I was at the clinic."

Sherlock cocked his head to defend himself, or rather to keep John from spending his energy on worrying about him. He was after all a capable adult.

"I can manage. It's all transport, John."

With a nervous fluttering in his stomach, Sherlock read the doctor's expression. It changed rapidly from astonishment to anger to anxiety to resignation.

"What are you going to do now, with the case I mean?" he asked Sherlock who secured the files between his arm and chest.

"I need to get the laptop where all the information about the soldiers is. And maybe clean up the flat. If I know Mycroft right he has men around this building by now so you will be safe. I'm returning later when you should be released from the hospital."

John sighed and began to finger the blanket. "Good luck, then."

The detective hesitantly loomed over John who barely reached him to the ribs now that he was sitting on a bed. But then Sherlock pulled himself together and walked out of the room, aware that John would know from the three protruding, empty twigs in Lestrade's box that he had nicked some grapes when the doctor and the DI had been immersed in conversation.


	12. The confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock deal with the kiss, and what's in Sherlock's vault anyway?

When Sherlock returned to the hospital, carrying the suddenly precious laptop in the same black bag he had kept his vault in before, John was already waiting at the entrance in his own clothes.

Sherlock held the cab and beckoned John to him. One of Mycroft's employees leant against a brick wall and smoked nearby. The detective snorted in his direction and offered one hand to John to help him climb into the car but John didn't take it. Frowning, Sherlock went into the cab himself and then they drove off.

Sherlock was forced to drum his fingers against the leg out of worry. The threat against John had affected him more than he dared let on, as he now had to turn his head and look in every direction like a nervous deer throughout the ride. Looking, looking for spying eyes or something worse. Never before had he feared the city itself but all of the sudden he resented it for every corner and alley where a hitman could prepare for an ambush.

The doctor must have sensed his gathering fear, for he suddenly looked at him with horrible revelation in his weary eyes.

"Sherlock, are you keeping watch?"

Luckily Sherlock had already deduced that the cabbie was an ordinary man and not a villain in disguise. He wouldn't be a threat even if he overheard the conversation

"Gun barrels," he said briefly and saw how John tensed up. He had more questions.

"What are the odds that someone would have a network as big as Moriarty had and operate in London, too?" John hissed feebly, clearly still clinging to any kind of hope that the situation wasn't so bad. But Sherlock would have to disappoint him.

"You can be very _successful_ with a few followers as long as they are devoted and loyal."

Neither of them said anything else until they were back at the flat. Even John had detected the agents lurking near the house and it was a punch to the gut for Sherlock to see his friend walk the short distance between the car and the building with a stiff stance and long if not hurried strides. He moved like a soldier sneaking behind enemy lines; afraid of detection. Mentally, John was back in Afghanistan.

Sherlock attempted to help John take off his jacket but he pulled back and growled, "Leave off."

Shocked by the animosity, the detective backed away and made his way into the living room with the black bag. He had saved copies of the valuable information from their investigation and sent them to Mycroft and Lestrade. He heard John follow him and knew his gaze would seek out the recently cleaned sofa and carpet for traces of the blood that had been spilled. But Sherlock had done a marvelous job of removing the stains; not for the sake of the fabrics but for John's and his own. Never again did he want to see John's blood as a macabre memento of peril and mortality.

"You saved us from Mycroft's gallows," John commented but his joke failed to make them laugh. Sherlock set up the laptop on the desk but realized he wouldn't be allowed to work because John's poor excuse of an icebreaker posed as a beginning of the dreaded conversation he had expected ever since the doctor had breached the subject of the kiss. Sherlock couldn't escape it now but at least he was prepared.

"Why?"

A simple question that was about the most complicated thing Sherlock had ever dealt with. Such irony.

"I don't know."

"You don't… Come on, Sherlock. You never _don't know_ ," John said with a hint of irritation before he continued, "How many theories, then?" That was easier to answer.

"Seventeen. I have yet to reduce them to one."

"No, you're going to tell me now without stalling. I have to know if the arrangement with my flatmate has changed."

Sherlock frowned and put his hands on his hips while asking with a crisp voice, "You would move out _if_ I confirmed that highly hypothetical idea?" Ice filled his very being but he saw John sigh and walked over to the sofa where he seated himself in the middle, looking small but surrounded by the soft security of the cushions.

"I didn't say that. But I would like to be informed if you harbored any…feelings for me."

As if Sherlock didn't! Of course he felt something for his best, most loyal friend who always trusted him, helped him keep out of trouble and provided much needed assistance while solving cases. It only became apparent now how much John really did mean to him. And it was frightening to need a person that much.

"You were bleeding, John. You drenched three handkerchiefs and a towel. You refused an ambulance. And then you didn't." Sherlock was murmuring now, determinedly looking down at his shoes where driblets of melted snow made the leather shimmer. From the sounds he deduced that John shifted on the sofa, leant forward.

"That doesn't answer my question. Tell me, please," Sherlock flinched and closed his eyes. He hated it when John of all people used that word, as it compelled him to obey, "Was that action brought by fear, or rather relief, or something more profound?"

The flat was dead quiet after John's question had left his lips. Sherlock considered abandoning his designed plan to snap if the doctor came too close to the truth he was afraid to admit even to himself. But then he raised his head and took in John's sad, brown eyes locked on his, a solemn, unreadable expression on his face and an image appeared in his mind.

John slowly choking from smoke poisoning in a hospital bed with bluish skin and a sheen of sweat on the forehead. Sherlock had bent down and breathed into his mouth. And during the procedure he had comforted John by brushing his nose over the hot cheek. Another memory, closer to the present, emerged. John lying on the sofa, getting paler by the minute as his manipulated blood poured out from him. Although in his panic, Sherlock had wanted to do anything to save John.

Never before when they had lived together had John been so dependent of him. And Sherlock had never been so willing to help another human being. The most surprising part was that Sherlock hadn't solely had selfish reasons for it; he had also done it for John's sake. Because that man deserved to live.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective shook himself and returned to the present. Yes, he was scared by the depths of his own feelings. But this was about John, good old John who was threatened and surrounded by an unseen evil lurking in London. _He_ didn't need more lies and deceivers.

"I was very worried before. When you finally gave me permission to call for an ambulance, I was relieved. And, as is quite common especially in different sports when a team has won and the adrenalin flows, I was unable to control myself for a moment. I became happy, relieved and before I knew it my lips touched yours. I don't know why exactly right now since I've never before been subjected to such an unstoppable urge. I apologize if you disapproved."

There. He had said it.

Sherlock studied John, desperately attempting to predict his response from his features but John was calm, only wrinkling his forehead a bit. "No, it's fine," he started slowly and dropped his shoulders. "Well, I mean, everyone can do odd things in extreme circumstances. It was just that I didn't expect a kiss. Thank you for your honesty."

"You're welcome," Sherlock replied stiffly and watched him open his mouth again.

"So… we're still friends?" A small, tentative smile graced John's lips and Sherlock could tell he was hoping for the right answer.

"Yes, I believe we are," Sherlock said and felt pleasant warmth within, washing away the terror which had lived inside him ever since John got his nosebleed. He hadn't lost his friend.

***

After they had ended the talk, John was happy that the thing was out of the way and that neither of them was resentful or angry. He hated it when he fought with Sherlock, as it often felt like he was tugging at the strings of a deep connection, brutally carving a hole in his core. Nevertheless, sometimes the situation demanded him to confront Sherlock but this time everything had ended without any of them stomping away in fury.

Sherlock too seemed capable of moving on to the next important task at hand: handling the case. He marched out of the living room, towards his bedroom and called, "Come along, John."

John followed as always, but he took some time to inspect Sherlock's room while the detective practically dove into his organized wardrobe. He had rarely been in this room, partly out of respect for Sherlock's privacy and partly because it was a habit of theirs kept from 221B to stay in the living room when working on cases.

John always felt sort of encased by the burgundy colour on Sherlock's walls and he thought it reminded him of the cozy feeling he had gotten when entering their old flat. Sure he enjoyed the white, modern colouring in this flat, but Sherlock's room felt like home, even though John knew he was silly for thinking like that. He looked at the made bed and smiled upon detecting no creases whatsoever on the duvet. Clearly Sherlock might be faulty when it came to domestic work but he certainly knew how to make a bed that even a colonel would be proud of.

A clank sounded from the wardrobe and John turned around. The detective shifted backwards and straightened his back. In an open drawer stood a small but expensive-looking vault with its door ajar. John's curiosity was peaked.

"You have your first aid kit, John, and I have mine. I want you to know that if you ever need to flee from Britain, there are prepared passports, visas and enough money to bribe your way into twenty countries all around the globe. I'm sure you could find a way to break into it. Even Mycroft doesn't know about the content in my vault."

John folded his arms before his chest and tilted his head. "Why are you telling me this? We're not in that kind of danger, are we?"

Instead of answering immediately, Sherlock dug a hand into the vault and rummaged through it and John heard papers of different kinds, possibly banknotes rustling.

"In case of an emergency," Sherlock smirked, once again comparing his semi-legal treasure to John's medical kit, and pulled out two guns.

"Christ, Sherlock!" John gasped and on cue stumbled back. Even if he had served in the army he had never gotten used to weapons when other people carried them. And his lifestyle with the consulting detective hadn't changed that. He still got nervous when someone brandished a gun in front of him and it didn't matter that it was his best friend who currently held the weapons peacefully pointed downwards.

"No need to get excited, John. It's just two boring Smith & Wesson SD9," Sherlock began, ignorant of his wariness and handed him one gun.

"These are illegal. I was already pushing the limit before by keeping my old Sig Sauer from the army and now you've got _two_ guns!"

At that, Sherlock's smirk changed to an indignant expression and he pursed his lips in displeasure.

"I do not recall you objected that I had my firearm when we first met Moriarty. And of course I would acquire a pair to ensure that you are protected by more than Mycroft's obvious spies," Sherlock explained as the gun settled in John's hand. The weight was perfect.

Then he caught himself and asked as anxiety swept through the room and made it seem colder despite the rich red tone on the walls, "Do you believe someone will attack me? Face to face?"

"The man behind the fire and the poisoned food is clever and unpredictable. Too sophisticated to be a weak-minded, average murderer. But even a genius can lose patience and take to more common tactics to harm you," Sherlock replied and John released the magazine with fluent, experienced movements to check if the weapon was loaded.

"This isn't a bloody Western movie for God's sake! I won't stroll through London with a gun under my jacket. Actually, why should I need one? I can fend for myself if it comes to that and if a sniper is aiming at me I can't do anything to prevent it anyway, but most important of all; Mycroft and Lestrade are working on the case and will surely catch Stewart soon. I don't think we need to worry."

Although, John reluctantly confessed to himself, he _was_ a bit spooked after everything that had happened but he refused to act like a hunted prey. He had to live like he always had to remain sane. The man before him pulled himself up tall and stared him down with those piercing grey eyes that gleamed like cold fires from the shadow under the curly fringe.

"John."

His voice was dark, rumbling as if to point out the seriousness but John knew that Sherlock never was utterly unyielding to his wishes, however commanding the detective sounded. Sherlock closed the distance between them and John tipped his head back slightly in order to defiantly glare back. The dark curls danced from the motion and now with his unclogged nostrils John was perfectly able to pick up Sherlock's scent: clean shirt, 'outside', and a mix of spicy fragments that could come from cologne, soap, and chemicals. But he stood undeterred by the man looming over him.

"Take the gun or we are going north to stay away from London for a few weeks. It is entirely up to you."

Damn! John couldn't leave Sarah alone again at the clinic and not receive the next paycheck. Cautious of the gun in his hand, he saw to that it wasn't cocked before he growled, "Fine! But don't you mention the weapon again. I hate this!"

Unexpectedly, just as John turned around to walk out from the bedroom, long fingers clamped down on his good shoulder and halted him.

"I only want you to be safe, even if the methods remind you of the war." Sherlock's mumble was subdued and John gave a nod before gently lifting his shoulder to indicate in a friendly manner that he would like to be released. Sherlock let go of him but John felt the material still hug the skin on his shoulder and it wasn't uncomfortable.

John left the room quietly, the gun dangling by his side. Anyway, it was time for his medication to readjust the anticoagulant levels in his blood. How he wished all that he had to do was taking a pill to make all the bad things go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, who are they kidding? They so love each other! I'm so glad it seems you're enjoying the story so far.


	13. The revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case progresses, as does Sherlock's emotional awareness.

Later that evening after John had taken a shower and changed clothes, he was busy standing before his wardrobe and figure out how to dress to hide the gun, if he hypothetically would bring the weapon with him every time he went outside. Suddenly his phone buzzed in his jeans. He picked up the device and held it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Wait a moment, sir. I'll put you through," a woman chirped and beeps were heard.

John raised his eyebrows and then a familiar silken voice declared, "Apologies for that procedure, John. Have you recovered from the visit at the hospital?"

"Mycroft," John mumbled and glanced at his closed door, knowing that there were only so many inches of wood separating him from a detective on the move.

"I presume Sherlock is in your presence as we speak," Mycroft said with a hint of inquiry. John closed the wardrobe, getting the feeling that he wouldn't be able to continue organizing it when Mycroft told him the purpose behind his call.

"No, I'm on my own."

"As much as I would prefer he did not meddle with this delicate thing I fear he one way or another will find out the news I have. You might as well put me on speaker phone and summon him," Mycroft mused but John realized he hadn't been given the option to object. The threat against him wasn't private anymore, far from it with Mycroft Holmes and Scotland Yard involved.

"Okay. Sherlock!" John shouted and heard a tall man scramble up from whatever yoga position he had put himself in and dash into the corridor and then…

"What?" the detective asked sharply after having entered the room in a hurry and giving it a scanning once-over, probably for good measure, before he turned his gaze to John who pointed at the phone. "Your bro…"

"I'm glad you could join us for this conversation, dear Sherlock. It must be more comfortable for you than trying to listen through the wall," Mycroft interrupted and John momentarily feared that the phone would melt in his palm from the sheer fire that came from Sherlock's glare.

"Spare me your vile insinuations, Mycroft, and tell us already," he snarled but winked at John to ensure him it wasn't a real fight.

"Always so impolite," the other man tutted before he began to unravel the details from his progress.

"We have Mr. Samir Ghaddar as you know. Surprisingly, it did not take long for him to crumble. I have the report of his testimony in my hand." Then Mycroft fell silent as if to create a dramatic pause.

"By all means, read it to us," John burst out and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"For some time now Mr. Ghaddar has had infrequent visits from a thug. This unknown man told him very explicitly what would happen to the Ghaddar family in their _house_ on their _street_ if he did not do as ordered. Naturally one would think the threatened man should have alerted the police but Mr. Ghaddar has this idea that the police force is too corrupted and discriminative to help a Lebanese immigrant. And the gangster promised him that if Mr. Ghaddar had been within five feet of a police station, he could say farewell to his residence permit. The distressed Mr. Ghaddar believed him, as he was terrified for the well-fare of his family. So he did what this man asked of him."

John felt burning coal of anger stir in his core from hearing how cowardly this thug had been by threatening Samir's own family. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock hold his breath and wait for Mycroft to continue.

"Apparently this man barged in through the back door to the kitchen every time you arrived to the restaurant, and handed Mr. Ghaddar a bag with powder and demanded him to add the poisonous ingredient to the food you ordered. According to Mr. Ghaddar the man had a gun and was not afraid to show it when he stayed in the back of the shop until the dish had been served. Furthermore, Mr. Ghaddar claims he in fact blinked SOS in Morse when he came out to deliver the dishes, but you never seemed to detect it. Unfortunately there are no cameras in that particular area which means we do not know with absolute certainty he is not in league with the criminal. But I personally believe Mr. Ghaddar is not involved in more ways than as a hostage. He has after all provided us with a lot of new information."

"Such as?" Sherlock impatiently sneered and they heard Mycroft sigh theatrically.

"We have a good description of the wanted man. Although he wore a Halloween mask each time he came to the restaurant it was still possible to distinguish some things. He is very tall, approximately 6 ft 3 and broad but not in the sense of overweight. His sinewy arms indicate he is strong, in good shape but not overly so. The report says this man was quick on his feet, thus not bothered by his heavy torso. And he was always collected but terrifying with his calm demeanour as he delivered the Brodifacoum. He was not nervous when he held the gun so Samir was never tempted to disobey. As for his clothes he always wore beige cargo trousers, brown hiking boots, and a black, new leather jacket."

"The mask…" Sherlock began and Mycroft caught on. "A grotesque gorilla. Made of rubber and can be bought anywhere. It covered his entire face except the eyes which were brown. Mr. Ghaddar didn't spend too much time studying him since he feared for his life during these unannounced visits. But we do have a lead. The accent."

"The accent?" John repeated and felt his mind reel as the thought finally sunk in. Mycroft had found someone who at the moment seemed more sinister than Miles Stewart and possibly could be the man behind the assassination attempts. He shared one look with Sherlock. Neither of them had really suspected someone from a foreign country when they had called the many soldiers John had encountered.

"Yes. Mr. Ghaddar heard from the few words the gangster uttered that he was not from Britain. But it turns out Mr. Ghaddar is not so accomplished when it comes to identifying accents. My men are engaged in playing recorded different accents that belongs to the largest groups of immigrants in Britain for him. I am informed it will take a while but I give you my word I will call you when I have an answer."

"Not before you have had at least an hour to investigate the thing by yourself and then forward the information to Lestrade so he won't feel left out!" Sherlock barked and now John glowered at the childish detective. Clearly, Sherlock despised having to share a case with his brother.

"Stop it. That isn't our main problem," John stated but was met with a dignified hemming from Mycroft.

"Very wise, John. You must excuse my brother. He has always found it hard to see the priorities."

"Shut up, Mycroft!" Sherlock roared and fisted his hands as he began to circle John and furiously glare at the phone in his hand.

"Alright, children, I think that's enough family time for now. Good you informed us, Mycroft but be kind to Samir, please. Sherlock and I will keep researching over here. Bye," John hurried to say and ended the call. He had no time for a Holmesian row.

Sherlock kept walking around him but now his hands met each other under his chin and he regarded the ceiling. "Gorilla mask, accent, Brodifacoum, strong torso, accent, strong…" the detective muttered and didn't realize John was becoming dizzy because of the circling and the swishing sound of moving clothes.

"Sherlock, you're doing it again."

"Accent…hmm?" he replied absently and John simply grabbed him the next time he passed in front of him. Immediately, Sherlock's hands fell to his side and he frowned as John held onto his jacket in waist level.

"What was that, John?"

The doctor slowly released him but as the fabric slid through his fingers he felt a jolt but assumed it was just brought on by the pleasant feeling of soft material against sensitive fingertips.

"You're trying to deduce without enough information. If we had Samir here I'm sure you would solve the mystery in one minute but we don't so why don't you go and sit by the computer and begin to search for masks or whatever and you call when you know more?" John suggested softly and looked up at the bewildered man.

Sherlock's eyes had left the ceiling and instead searched his face. Sherlock's mind was obviously set on deducing and it was John's job to aim it.

"Poison, hostage, yes, John. I need the laptop," Sherlock muttered and shut his eyes so small wrinkles appeared on the side of his lids.

"Wales, accent, strong, pale from blood loss, worried; possibly from the menace, hand not shaking from carrying a gun, hair barely dry after a shower…" John didn't know if he should chuckle or be concerned when Sherlock was side-tracked and started to deduce him.

"Sherlock, get out!" he shouted and the taller man jumped and gasped as his brilliant eyes opened. He collected himself rather quickly and cleared his throat while taking a step away from the doctor.

"Of course. I need to work. Join me whenever you want," he said and again John was flabbergasted upon seeing two red spots developing on the pale man's cheeks. So Sherlock had learnt to be self-conscious at last. Who would have thought?

***

Next day Sherlock snuck into John's bedroom when the doctor had done to work. Despite his feeble protests, Sherlock had known that he couldn't stop John from normal life, and he trusted Mycroft's men who would supervise his friend on his way to the clinic. But Sherlock abhorred the silence once John had left.

He wanted to leave London with the next train and isolate them from enemies. Though, John would feel like a prisoner and Sherlock would not become a man who hurt John. He was John's ally in this war against a murderous genius. But Sherlock was scared for him.

He had spent the rest of yesterday scanning the Internet for clues, all in vain. Mycroft hadn't called and at some point Sherlock was tempted to go to Samir's and investigate but John had stopped him by reminding him that Scotland Yard and Mycroft's team were probably already collecting evidence there so Sherlock had returned to the pointless computer.

The detective carefully sat on his haunches beside John's bed. He tipped his head and peeked under it. John had missed a couple of large shards so Sherlock reached out a hand and grasped them.

Last night when John had been in his room Sherlock had unexpectedly heard something going into pieces while an unrestrained scream sounded through the flat. He had toppled the chair when he flew up from the desk and then ran to John's room and barged in.

John standing in the middle with splotches of water on his clean clothes. Heaving pants and his eyes terrifyingly wild. Shards from a vase scattered around the room and a heap of ruined flowers in one corner. John had shaken from dammed up rage and without asking, Sherlock went up to him and gently touched his arm.

After a while John calmed down and explained silently that he had felt too trapped and wounded by the gangster's technique. Sherlock traced the painted petals on the shard in his hand and recalled John's helpless confession against the hand that rested on his shoulder.

" _He threatened Samir's kids, Sherlock! Who does that to get to me? Promise me you will find that man before Lestrade and Mycroft because I swear to God I want to spend some time alone with that bastard_."

Sherlock raised himself and inhaled deeply. It was thankfully impossible to smell fear. The air was only scented with John, his soap and sleep. Sherlock found he missed John less when he was in John's room. But his break was over.

He left the door half-open, exactly as John had left it when he went to work, and strolled into the living room. The shards were tossed into the bin by the desk and Sherlock walked to the bathroom to wash the dust off his hand.

"I must find that man. He and Stewart are done harassing John and others. They have harmed John both physically and emotionally. If it wasn't for John's request I would kill them myself," Sherlock said and reached for the towel.

He was just thinking out loud and not addressing anyone in particular. Especially not the PVC-filled, grinning duck on the sink.

"Fourteen hours since Mycroft's call and he still hasn't contacted me, whereas I haven't discovered anything. The weight is too heavy for John's shoulders. He's the brave one; walking through London when snipers could be aiming…"

Sherlock groaned, hung his head over the sink, and clenched the porcelain. He didn't want to think about John out there. He had promised to let the doctor live as he used to. John was a man who needed space. So why had he several times since they came home from the hospital invaded Sherlock's space and ended up inches from his body?

It was maddening for Sherlock to watch John seek out his presence despite his former words that they were friends. Did friends put themselves right in front of one another? Was it common to touch each other as much as John and Sherlock had done, even if it were innocent grasps and comforting hands? Should it not be unusual when Sherlock only had seen English men getting cuddly when they were drunk at the pub or watched a match?

He was suddenly aware of his knuckles turning white as he clutched the edge of the sink. He let go and glanced into the mirror. Sleepless eyes and combed curls. But no hint of a smile. The time for smiles was gone. The infernal duck provoked him.

"What are you grinning for? Know something I don't? Entertaining is it, to see a detective at loss? Well, guess what: you're a plastic stereotypical toy! Not even a skull which at least has something human in it. You're not human because you lack a heart!"

Sherlock refrained from getting rid of the duck when he realized what he had said.

He, Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective and highfunctioning sociopath had mentioned a vital part of the living body. Why? It wasn't even logical to equate a cranium and a heart when contemplating what was human.

Anyway, Sherlock only appreciated his heart from a neutral biological point of view. The heart was a beating muscle that didn't even resemble the red hearts people liked to paint everywhere. The heart, _cor_ , couldn't hold feelings, nor _break_ like romantic idiots believed. The broken heart syndrome had a perfectly logical explanation; emotional stress weakening the organ. It was triggered from the brain. The brain was placed inside the skull. The heart had nothing to do with it. Why had he brought up the heart?

Sherlock shook his head and considered entering his mind palace to understand the odd way his mind had behaved in when a word fluttered by.

Love.

"Wrong!" he yelled and wrenched himself from the sink before kicking the door open and barging out with gritted teeth and a pulsing inside.

A sociopath like him wasn't capable of handling this, and certainly not experienced enough to wander into the world of emotions, profound feelings and affection. He was above want and desire and _love_. He had his brain and everything else was transport.

Unaware of it, Sherlock had entered his room and nearly climbed the walls out of inability to tame the storm that raged within. Waves of nausea rolled off him and he staggered to a corner of the bed where he managed to cling to an ornamented pole. He was on thin ice now. On Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson would have disturbed him by now and made him come to his senses.

At that moment, in the middle of his personal breakdown, his phone began to vibrate. Sherlock took a shaky breath and reached into his pocket to retrieve the phone.

Lestrade.

"Afternoon! Not outside are you? There's another storm coming in and it's gonna hit London in about an hour," the DI announced brightly and Sherlock rolled his eyes. When Lestrade spoke like that he was in a talkative mood and would be annoyed when Sherlock only thought about the work.

"No, I am at home."

"Good. It wouldn't do if you catch pneumonia. Keep your scarf on when you're out in the snow, will you?"

Sherlock let go of the bed poster and turned his attention to the window. Fat flakes were already falling down from the darkening sky. Excellent. If anyone followed John's footsteps they would fail when snow and wind extinguished his footprints.

"How is Wales?" Sherlock wondered and heard the police huff.

"Thanks to you I'm staying at an inn which gets really cold during the nights. Had to sleep with all my clothes on last night. The inn keeper isn't fixing the heating and I'm alone here, save for a lady who I suspect sleeps with the inn keeper although they pretend to be ignorant of the thumps. There's no TV and my team is collected from the local forces so of course they hate me when I come and drag them outside to work in the winter. I'll tell you; this morning when I woke up I couldn't feel my bal…"

"I mean what's happening with the case," Sherlock interrupted and lowered himself onto the bed, decided to lie down in order to slow down his rushed pulse.

"Oh, that. We haven't located Mr. Stewart yet. There are many cottages here and no-one on the stations seems to recall where he lived last time they heard from him. He's known amongst the cops for being a loony but they only remember the legends, not what he's been up to lately. But I've been more successful with his wife."

Sherlock stiffened on the bed. He was about to get new information and perhaps be able to deduce more, as though bag with pieces to a puzzle was dumped in front of him. Exhilarating. "Tell me."

Lestrade thumbed a notepad and Sherlock refrained from pointing out that a DI should be able to keep a certain amount of intelligence in his head.

"Let's see here. Ah, yes. Former Mrs. Stewart, Alice, a lovely woman. Chatty. Met her this morning at the hospital where she works. She's in the cardiology section and has worked there for nine years. She told me a great deal about her ex-husband." The DI turned a page and cleared his throat.

"Their marriage lasted seven years until two years ago when he returned from Afghanistan, just like John. No children; she can't have any. She said she didn't like it when he went to the war four times in three years and stayed away longer and longer for each trip. Between his trips he wasn't really with her, as she put it. He was somewhere else in his mind.

She began to contact him in his camp. Wondered if everything was alright but Mr. Stewart waved it aside with explanations that he was busy preparing for campaigns. Then, on his last trip he injured his hand and was sent back. Alice told him she didn't mind his maimed hand, that she would support him and help him find therapists. But he told her to bugger off and took to stay in their house all day, get depressed and drink up his war pension."

Lestrade paused and moved around. Sherlock dragged a finger up and down the buttoned line on his shirt and listened intensely when the DI took a deep breath.

"Then all of a sudden her husband bought a computer and began to sit with it constantly. She asked him what he was doing with it, troubled that he never left it even during the nights which left her alone in the bed. He answered that he was trying to get in touch with his mates from the companies he had served in, which relieved her at first but then she saw he was on an anarchistic site. I guess that was when he turned his back on this country.

I will try to get the computer when we find Stewart, because then we can track down the history from the memory and establish how much of a fanatic he is. But Alice never heard him mention John."

"So that basically covers the history of the Stewart's. What do you know about their current situation?" Sherlock asked with a collected tone.

"A couple of months after his return, Alice had enough when her husband began to blame everyone for his hand. He ate pills and snapped at her so she packed her things and left him. She hasn't been in touch with him since and doesn't know where he's living now, but he has moved from their house.

He could be anywhere, although we still believe he told you the truth when you called him, so we're searching through Wales. His parents are dead and he has no other relatives so we have to rely on Scotland Yard to find him," Lestrade stated with a serious tone and Sherlock bit down a snarky reply. The force was useful even though some idiots occasionally appeared in the lines. He trusted Lestrade with this.

"Sherlock? You're still there?" the other man asked tentatively and Sherlock gave him a wordless humming.

"I'm in an arctic zone scratching your back. Are you scratching mine?"

"Whatever do you mean, Lestrade?" Sherlock challenged and sat up, not wanting his jacket to get creases.

"The files I gave you. If you have a moment to spare, please have mercy and look into them," the cop begged, but Sherlock detected the sarcastic tone behind the words. That was no way to treat a consulting detective.

"I'm busy. Find Stewart and then I'll solve that boring cold case."

When Lestrade started to object with crude curses, Sherlock hung up. He knew more about Stewart now. He was ready to go back to the laptop and only think about the work and _nothing else_. He had _control_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of UST in that flat. What did you think of the chapter? Send me a comment, because I love those.


	14. The culmination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John deals with feelings, Sherlock, and needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only from John's POV this time, but very much worth reading...

John was on his way home from the clinic but the Christmas songs the shops played as he walked past them and the large snowflakes whirling around him did nothing to his broodiness.

He left the large street and went through a narrow alley with hurried steps, always letting his eyes dart around, looking for people staring at him, or following him. Sometimes when he looked over his shoulder he thought he saw tall men standing out from the crowd and was equally relieved and annoyed that he had spotted Mycroft's men.

They kept their distance but John still felt compelled to use another route for the way home than his usual. He had spent the lunch break in his office, searching for maps over London on his computer until he found one that covered the area between his work place and home.

From now on he could play a morbid, awful game where he competed against himself every morning and evening: never use the same route twice. The price: a few hours at every place in safety. The forfeit: possibly a bullet in his head. So John wasn't smiling as he made his way through the wintry city.

The gun bumped into his stomach every time he moved his right leg. It was true he missed the war when he was dismissed from it two years ago. And then he had met Sherlock who had been able to provide danger and excitement in the name of justice and truth which had made London resemble Afghanistan to some extent. But the war John and Sherlock fought had always been on their conditions. Now he was in a war where someone else had the upper hand, just like Moriarty had had once. And that fact caused John to fear his own city.

He frowned and tried to occupy his mind with other things.

Sarah.

He had carefully studied her today and been glad when she showed no tiredness, since that meant she wasn't poisoned as well. He was the only target.

Furthermore he had dodged her questions about his day away with a prepared explanation; Sherlock had a case, which was sort of true, only he didn't mention the horrible details to not upset her and receive a pointless lecture on safeness. Apparently she believed him and when he informed her that Lestrade had told him that Samir's place was closed after a brutal mugging right outside the shop, Sarah was mildly horrified but practical; they would have to eat at the other place until the investigation squad was finished. John had agreed, though felt bad for lying to his colleague nevertheless.

At some point he finally reached the tower block and wondered, as he pressed the old code, when the new one would be installed by the management. Sherlock had said he would _ask_ them to do that, now that John's life was threatened.

'Come to think about it, wonder what he's been up to today?' John thought as he climbed the stairs and hoped there had been a major breakthrough with the case, whether by Lestrade, Mycroft, or Sherlock. His nerves were damaged after the long day of unease.

He went inside the flat and took off his jacket.

"Sherlock!" he called and trotted into the warm living room after he had wiped the snow from his shoes. He found the detective in the black, silken dressing gown he had bought after his blue one was destroyed in the fire, scooted down in the chair before the laptop with his bare feet resting on the desk and a cloud of smoke around his head. He was leisurely smoking a cigarette and didn't acknowledge John at all.

"Hello," John said a bit firmer and when Sherlock didn't turn around, he walked up to the desk to face him.

"What's with the cigarette?" he asked unceremoniously and stole a glance at the computer screen. Beds from a famous store were displayed but that didn't tell him anything.

"Did something happen today with the case?" he tried then, and Sherlock exhaled so grey fumes escaped around the glowing stick he held between his lips. Perhaps Sherlock had been affected by something today, for John hadn't seen him smoke in ages.

"Lestrade found Mrs. Stewart but everything else was not important."

Sherlock spoke with a lazy tone and closed his eyes, whereas John narrowed his. His temper was not going to stand this attitude. "What about her? What did he say exactly? And did you search for gorilla masks or protein shakes or whatever your brain might connect with the thug who met Samir?" He waved his hand over the empty desk and the screen with nonsense.

Sherlock opened his eyes but they were not clear, his mind not set on deducing or solving mysteries. It was as if he was bored. When John was scared to walk the streets of London and had to plan his day like soldier going on a raid.

"Sherlock," he muttered as a clear warning and the ice blue-grey eyes went up to the ceiling instead of looking at him.

"I do not have any answers today."

A simple response that didn't please John at all. He shifted his stance and bowed down until he could place one hand on the desk next to Sherlock's legs and the other on the back of the chair the detective occupied. With barely controlled voice he emitted, "I'm very close to trembling fingers, Sherlock. I felt like a bloody sitting duck no matter how fast I walked through the city. Share the case with me now and tell me you've done something useful today."

Smoke went into his nostrils and the bitter scent stung but otherwise Sherlock didn't even move despite the intimidatingly close position John had assumed.

"There were no answers. I'm at loss," Sherlock let out through the corner of his mouth and John picked up an enigmatic tone but couldn't decipher it without Sherlock's cooperation. He raised himself and moved away from the man.

"Then what good does it to smoke in here? It's stinking and I thought both of us had had enough of poison for some time," at that Sherlock flinched but then he continued puffing, "and if it's so essential for you to get nicotine, why don't you put on some patches?" John growled and began to pace in front of the desk, attempting to keep his boiling rage at bay.

Sherlock finally removed the cigarette and his lips slid off it slowly before he tipped his head to the side and curiously studied the smoke.

"Because patches are…patches, if you excuse my unimaginative phrasing. They just sit there. Now these on the other hand," Sherlock rolled his wrist and made the cigarette move in a circle, spreading ash on the surface beneath, "are more entertaining. It requires constant moving."

"Yeah, you look like a damn athletic, I give you that!" John burst out and before he knew it he leant forward and grabbed Sherlock's pointy little finger. It was as cold as the weather outside. Sherlock at last tore his eyes from the cigarette and met the doctor's, whereas he rapidly let go of the digit in disgust and scowled.

"It's my home, too! I don't want you to pollute it with poisonous smoke which I will be affected by against my will!"

Sherlock retracted his legs with the fluent movements of a cat and jumped up from the chair and his dressing gown bounced as much as his curls did. "As if living in London saves you from toxic particles! Rest assured, John; we are all going to die prematurely if the politicians don't start to think about the environment soon," Sherlock said cruelly and smirked imperiously at John, who snapped.

"Well, in my case I might be dead _tomorrow_ if you don't fucking do anything about it! I counted on you to help me through this and solve the case but you are sitting her on your arse, scrolling for a fancier bed and smokes in my flat! It pisses me off, Sherlock!"

He went at Sherlock and waves of fury seemed to speed up his pulse. "Stub the fucking cigarette now, or go and finish the sickening thing on the balcony!" He didn't care that Sherlock reeled back, nor that the book cases seemed to tremble and that the neighbours would have heard his enraged scream. He was mad beyond control.

"Sounds like an ultimatum, and mixed with the rather colourful language, I would say you act like a soldier. Did the gun help you get your spirit back?" Sherlock snarled with a sarcastic tone and when he sauntered forward to get around John, the doctor didn't move so his broad shoulder unkindly collided with Sherlock's arm but neither of them winced.

Sherlock thrust open the door to the small balcony and stepped out barefoot before he slammed it shut so the surrounding windows rattled from the force. He stood with his back to the living room and John saw him tie his dressing gown and bring up the damn cigarette to his head. Fuck!

***

John dove for the keyboard and closed the page with the beds just to spite his infuriating flatmate before he stomped towards the bathroom and confined himself inside. He took a large breath and groaned.

His body was still affected from the nosebleed and the work at the clinic, along with the worry on his way there and back, and the row with the childish, stubborn, inconsiderate Sherlock had him utterly exhausted and miserable. He wanted to forget everything but the most basic things in his life. Just listen to what nature and his body told him.

A shower. Yes, that was in order.

John tugged off his clothes and folded them sloppily before dumping them on the floor of black bricks. His shoes and socks were placed beside the heap and then he stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain which shielded him somewhat from the light and made his mind begin to relax. He turned on the water and set it on a high temperature.

A simple life. Basic needs. Now warmth. Later food.

John stepped under the tiny waterfall and soaked himself within seconds. The lonely dog tag on the chain danced on his chest and the flood hit his hair and made his fringe frequently release a lot of water over his face. Nice at first, then uncomfortable as he couldn't keep his eyes open. He flipped his head and made the hair change position.

As he started to scrub himself with his soap, a thought emerged. Had it been necessary for Sherlock to behave like that? He had obviously provoked John on purpose. But why? John stretched his arm over the other shoulder and moved it over his shoulder blades. Had something happened today that made Sherlock act so…sociopathic? But if he had told John, he hadn't had to yell…

John slammed his free palm against the grey tiles on the wall and gritted his teeth. He wasn't supposed to think about that now! He had had it with drama for the moment! He needed a break, if only a few private minutes in a tub.

He concentrated on a primal thing. His own skin. His fingertips caressed the area beneath the back of his neck. Firm but also tense muscles under it and he pressed the fingers into them so the stress would leave. But suddenly something coarse, protruding met his digits. John stiffened and traced the rest of the upper half of his back.

The scars from the flames that had almost taken his life at 221B. Shouldn't they be smaller by now? His mind slipped into doctor mode. How long did it usually take for a wound to become a fading, shrinking scar? How many days had passed since the fire? John felt several other spots on his back and grimaced. His distaste for scars ran deep but the reason was not brought on by some narcissistic beauty complex.

The truth was that he hated being reminded of weakness, of being wounded so bad that his body was marked forever by the episodes. Each of the scars represented a time when he had been helpless, taken down, impaired until he found the strength to get up again. And what if he someday couldn't get up? What if in the unknown future his body suddenly couldn't take more damage done to it? That was what the brave and scared John thought of when he analyzed his scars.

"You better disappear, you little fuckers!" he mumbled with vehemence and stepped under the shower again.

No. He should think about something more common. Natural. Basic.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs.

What would he have next, after the food? Sleep. What else?

Pleasure.

The word itself sent a ripple through John and he warily eyed the damp curtain. Quite understandably, he had for the time being given up on dating, as if it wasn't hard already what with him instantly leaving any lady company whenever Sherlock called.

Still, he missed having someone near at night, to hug to himself and share warmth with. Someone he enjoyed touching and who in return didn't mind touching him. John ducked his head under the streaming water and closed his eyes. He knew he needed this. A release, and an opportunity to feel absolutely great.

He took a deep breath, reminded himself to keep quiet in case Sherlock came back into the flat, and began to move one hand at a slower rate, made the movement softer as he slid it down his sternum, only did short detours to his nipples that turned sharper upon the contact. Yes.

John smelt the steam from the shower and the familiar scent of his soap and his troubles faded away and gave room for more appealing thoughts. The sensation of fingers going south, gliding easily on the damp skin caused him to shudder and there was a throb in his abdomen. He twitched.

John spent some time tantalizingly drawing circles on his flat stomach, denying himself immediate pleasure until he had built up some tension and longing in his body. He brought his other hand to the dog tag and held onto it, experiencing a thrill when the chain dug into the back of his neck, as if a lover pulled on it, coaxed him closer. A ragged breath slipped from his wet lips and John's roaming hand dove down below his waist, followed the furred line down, down.

He reached around the straining length and gasped softly. So smooth and wet from the pouring water. He steadied his grip, adjusted it by tightening his hand until it felt so good. Now for the next part. Carefully, he widened the distance between his feet and heard drops occasionally drum against the curtain.

Behind his closed lids he searched for an image. A writhing woman's body? Blurred together from his many, though short-lived, girlfriends. John tried to stroke himself but it was halfheartedly and he shook his head so drops probably splashed against the wall. No, the girlfriends didn't work because the relationships hadn't worked. John couldn't use that as material when he was constantly reminded of how much of a failure he was at being a boyfriend.

Should he focus on the striking actress he had wanked off to through his whole adolescence? Breasts so large she could smother him with them and legs spread almost to an impossible angle? His cock agreed vigorously because it grew a bit harder and a pulsing within made John flush up. At first the image intrigued him, until his matured, still logical brain interfered.

He was an adult now who wasn't fooled by well-endowed women in small bikinis. He was attracted to so much more than that. And what if that poor actress had endured terrible pain if her implants one day ruptured? As a doctor he now saw from her too thin body to such breasts that she probably had an eating disorder, or worked out far too often. She wasn't healthy and it made him worried.

Then John came back to the presence and sighed as he opened his eyes, leant his forehead against the tiles and berated himself. Really, he wasn't even able to think of someone beautiful when he wanted to masturbate? John rolled his eyes before he gritted his teeth and brought forth the soldier in him while continuing to holding onto his dog tag. He wouldn't cry from this. He would get up again, literally and metaphorically, and find a suiting fantasy. Fine, the girls he knew were out. What else was there? Experimenting.

He smiled against the grey tiles before closing his eyes. To try something new, just because it's a fantasy and everything is possible.

He calmed down, breathed into the wall and, concentrated on his senses. Air filled of soap and the smell of man. No disturbing sounds except for the drizzle raining down on him. A hard surface against his head. No soft, female curves here. Only steady, solid, supporting hardness. Like…

John gulped but bravely went on. He wasn't shy and brushed a thumb over the exposed, swollen head.

Wall hard as a man's torso.

He waited for a mental dejection but there was none. Only safeness. Relief at for once being able to lean his heavy head into a mass that could hold him up. He managed a stroke and hissed when pleasant ripples spread all over him. Yes. He let go of the dog tag, barely heard it clatter when it bounced on his chest, and placed the free palm on the wall, next to his head. The surface next to his head: hard and warm, both unyielding and human. Just like…

John flinched but the sudden movement made his lower hand slid back and put unexpected pressure on the base. Helplessly, he released a moan and grew even harder as his mind swirled. He had compared the wall to Sherlock!

Clearly he was more tired than he had thought, and confused by the workings of his dazed mind. At least the wall was quieter than the detective. John snorted a giggle in the middle of his own hand-job but then sobered up. 'Wonder what Sherlock would do if he was left in a bed with another human being.'

John pondered the idea, unaware of how he kept rubbing the fingers along his cock.

'He'd probably deduce the other even if the body was hidden under the duvet. Tell the entire history from a glance. Or maybe…'

John caressed a tile apprehensively and thought about how Sherlock would behave in bed, purely theoretically of course. The dark-haired man would surely touch an interesting specimen with calculating, perceptive motions. Gather information when he ran his hand all over the other one. John found the slit on the top of his member and dragged a fingertip over it several times until his toes tingled and the pressure was heightened in his body.

Whoever lay under Sherlock Holmes would not be treated with the touch of a woman, or specific sexually stimulating techniques, but a thorough scrutiny, long fingers searching every inch of skin, not looking for flaws, but learning. John imagined how Sherlock would stroke, fondle a cock.

Pants would escape the other man within seconds. Slender hands running down to hold the length, before examining it with both the sense of touch and sight. Determine the length, the weight of the erected cock; simply _measure_ the cock in every way, for data. John did that to himself: put his hand flat against the rigid, slick part, and saw how long it was. Then, pale, graceful hands establishing how heavy he was, and of course extending the study to include his balls, too.

John didn't grab at them roughly and squeezed them with rushed movements like he used to, but cupped them carefully, felt the taut, soft skin and the warmth of them against his palm. He threw his head up and hissed and the long, so long, fingers touched every inch of the roundness, and dragged the hard surface of a nail over them.

Suddenly John came and the orgasm completely caught him of guard. It arrived so unusually fast that his head was swimming as he pumped his moist cock, groaned with open mouth, letting water drops fall onto his dry tongue, squeezed his already closed eyes, and surrendered to the rapture.

In the end, he returned to Earth, lightheaded, knowing his hips still undulated weakly and that his grip around his member was tight like an iron ring. He gasped and let go, felt his thighs quaver in the aftermath of a mind-blowing climax.

Absentmindedly, John began to slowly with dazed arms wash himself again before his brain rebooted. The eyes widened and he stared blankly at the grey tiles that for one moment had seemed to be something, or rather _someone_ , else. He had masturbated to the thought of his _male flatmate_ and _best friend_ caressing him intimately.

'What the fuck was that?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I threw in some military kink there, so I hope you approve. But John's thoughts are still a bit new, whereas Sherlock is all procrastinating emotions. Be here for the next chapter tomorrow.


	15. The shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is suddenly turned over and it's affecting both Sherlock and John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself and hold onto a friend, a teddy bear, or a handkerchief because this chapter is intense. Enjoy.

He was aiming at making a point, not getting a cold.

When the cigarette had died Sherlock flicked it over the railing and stomped with his foot. Lucky for him, the weight he had put on over the last two years since John had insisted he ate food regularly now made sure Sherlock's condition wasn't so easily affected by a few minutes in a snowstorm with hardly any clothes.

The bitterness in his mouth erased every other taste but made his world clearer and his head keener. Still, it made Sherlock slightly nauseous and his stomach churned as he at last gave in and went inside to the warmth.

He glanced at the laptop screen and detected his page was gone.

"Vengeful you," he muttered though wondered if he meant it as an insult or a compliment to his flatmate. Faintly, he heard the shower run. So that was where John had retreated after their fight.

Sherlock gingerly sat down in the chair he had occupied earlier and caressed the keyboard without typing. He abhorred their rare but heated conflicts and the ensuing tension in the air. True he had deliberatively talked to John the way he only did to those who hurt him. John hadn't hurt him. But he had made Sherlock doubt his control over his feelings and if the only way he could face the doctor without betraying himself was to act like a robot, Sherlock would do so.

He opened a search page and distantly heard the very normal mix of water hitting a tub and a body moving under the stream. A naked, wet body making slick noises. With a start, Sherlock turned off his hearing and too vivid imagination and instead began to look for clues concerning the unidentified man who had threatened Samir. Like John had asked of him.

A while later when Sherlock was making a mental chart of the average height in the countries from which most of Britain's immigrants came in order to sort out those who seldom had men who were over 6 ft, the bathroom door opened. The detective refrained from turning around, held his breath, and listened to John's slow steps.

"I'm tried. I'm going to go to bed now."

Even John's voice sounded strained and Sherlock felt a pang of guilt. "Do so," he answered briefly but then there was a bathrobe rustling. He closed his eyes and thought with exasperation, 'Why is he still here, in a bathrobe?' He waited for the predictable continuation.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed and rotated in his chair. Eye contact was underrated in John's opinion when talking. The sight seized his heart. Spiky, damp hair, drops clinging to the visible collarbone, warm, red feet standing steady on the floor and yet John looked forlorn. Almost as uncertain as Sherlock felt. Saliva gathered in Sherlock's mouth and he swallowed. That was a bodily function to ensure the cavern was kept damp. It was not a sign of…hunger.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you. But you infuriated me with that attitude. Why were you like that?"

His flatmate even tilted his head to the side like a questioning puppy! Sherlock fixed his eyes on John's feet and felt his damn cheeks heat up.

"I'm aware of your distress at the present, what with the upgraded security level and all but you should know I find myself equally as…unsettled by watching you leave and not be sure if you'll return in one piece," Sherlock emitted quietly but John heard. Oh, how he heard.

"But Sherlock! Why didn't you say so earlier? I would understand your behavior if I knew. And…Wait a minute," John said and left his hand hovering in the air as his thoughts created logic. Sherlock had lied too poorly. "You're not one to worry like that. It was you who told me I was perfectly safe with your gun, Mycroft's guards, and constant surveillance outside. Why would you doubt your own reasoning?"

John was sharper than most people believed at first sight. Sherlock shifted in the chair and decided to keep quiet about his recent panic attack when he realized he; the consulting detective with sociopathic tendencies was in…

Had a thing…

A frightening verb John…

Sherlock's every instinct implored him to flee but his physical being was frozen on the spot. John wouldn't want to hear that, not when Sherlock himself had yet to determine his raging emotions, and not when John had declared them as friends. When had everything become so hard?

Sherlock looked up and disciplined his facial expressions. Calm and controlled, but friendly. "As you may have discovered after our many cases together, John, I am a human no matter how hateful the thought is and I cannot always detach myself from my feelings. I know and trust the security that surrounds you but still I feel…"

"Afraid," John finished for him and a corner of his mouth twitched. "I see. But perhaps if you share this with me in the future we can avoid more rows."

Sherlock nodded and watched John yawn. A quarter to seven. He really was tired.

"Okay, I'm logging off. There are leftovers in the fridge. Just heat them up."

John made to move to his bedroom when Sherlock called, "John, wait!" He returned and Sherlock's eyes travelled across the living room to him. There was something about John but he couldn't put his finger on it. What if he deduced the doctor…

"Sherlock, it's getting cold. What is it?" a patient but tentative sigh came from John and Sherlock shrugged internally. It was he who was a weird mess at the moment, not John. He was imagining things.

"I apologize for the way I behaved. It was not fair to you."

John actually smiled and it made Sherlock happier. "It's fine." Then John went to his bedroom and closed the door.

Around eight o'clock when Sherlock had eaten and experimented with acid on the pasta on his plate, he climbed into his bed and propped himself up with pillows so he could sit comfortably. The room was dark except for his phone which he used to continue the search for clues about the masked man. The wind howled outside his window and Sherlock shivered at the thought of being outside in the snow. Snow in London was always impractical for chases.

A text arrived and Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. Lestrade. Thankfully the detective would not have to endure another lengthy chat where the DI complained about his situation.

_Found Mr. S. He's in a cottage west of Brynmawr. The team and me are on our way to his place now. Going to ask some questions. Sending more news later._

"The team and _I_ , Sherlock corrected and returned to his map of potential criminals who could be involved in the poisoning of John. The homeless network had had knowledge of the Golem when he resided amongst them. Tomorrow Sherlock would invest some pounds and see if anyone recognized a tall, big man with a foreign accent.

At last Sherlock put the phone on the night table and crept down as the light vanished. And for once he felt sleep overcome him. Maybe all his reeling thoughts today was the cause.

An urgent, shrill noise woke him up and Sherlock jolted up to a seated position and his dazed mind cleared when he saw his phone was ringing. Within a second he had identified the caller and the time. Mycroft, ten to ten. Sherlock stared at the name. Wouldn't Mycroft had taken a nightcap and gone to bed by now so his face wouldn't get wrinkles by late nights? This was unusual.

"What do you want? Sherlock rudely growled but instead of coming back with a clever retort, Mycroft breathed evenly and it mad Sherlock fully awake. "What?" he demanded and held his breath. What kind of breakthrough could possibly render his brother speechless? From what country did the man Samir had now identified come from?

"Sherlock, I'm in a car. The papers will want to write about this in the morning but we will stave them off until we have control over the situation."

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned, or urged his brother on, sensing there was something he didn't tell him.

"I was just informed of DI Lestrade's mission this evening. I'm afraid there have been complications."

Sherlock lit the lamp beside the bed and huddled in the midst of softness, an awful tension filling his being. Mycroft continued almost with a gentle tone, "As it were, Mr. Stewart was heavily armed. He opened fire as the team approached the house. Sherlock, Lestrade has been shot."

Sherlock continued to hear but he didn't listen. He saw but couldn't observe. Somehow he knew he was absorbing information from the words Mycroft said, that he deduced and came up with own details but all the same he felt surrounded by a constricting veil which kept him from that part of himself.

"John!"

A dark room, a raw voice that was supposed to be his own. Without registering it, Sherlock had barged inside John's bedroom and called out for him. The doctor flew up, as if sensing the need for his presence like it had been wanted during his military service.

"…taking him to the nearest hospital. That is all I know for now."

'Shut up!' Sherlock thought bitterly at his brother who was the messenger of these nasty news.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" John asked slowly and studied him carefully. Sherlock was off balance, wounded to the core and was aware of the damage one bullet could do. How many had penetrated Lestrade, and where?

"John."

This wasn't Sherlock. He knew how to handle an emergency and what one should do. Yet now he was answerless, like he always seemed to be when John was harmed. John climbed out of bed, his frame showing nothing but comforting familiarity and concern. A white t-shirt and shorts was all he wore and his hair was ruffled although his eyes were sharp.

"Give it here," he ordered and Sherlock surrendered his phone, tried to say something several times but no sound escaped him.

"John here. Oh, Mycroft. What… Oh. What? Oh my God! I'm…yes, I'm putting you on the speaker."

Sherlock was too fond of Lestrade to allow him to be wounded. It made Sherlock useless when his feeling took over his deducing mind. He drew nearer the steady, poised, concentrating doctor and when his scent washed over Sherlock, he found his way back.

"…so I'm on my way to Wales now, along with some of my people. Welch ARV units have been sent to the address to disarm Mr. Stewart. The team there is only watching the house from afar to see whether he leaves the building," Mycroft revealed quickly and left no room for pleasantries or superfluous wording. He was serious at times like this.

***

It was quite a handful to take care of after hours of sleep. Nevertheless, John found himself quickly returning to the nature of the soldier in his gloomy bedroom as the tale was unraveled.

Establish _what_ has occurred, if possible or crucial also _when_ , _why_ , and _how_ the crisis had happened and then be informed of what _will_ happen. Mycroft was an experienced informant and not a traumatized soldier, thankfully.

John maneuvered the phone in his palm efficiently and then stalked over the Sherlock who resembled a lost child by the wardrobe. His flatmate was the opposite of what he had been only a few hours ago but John had learnt long ago that it was common for Sherlock to have violent mood swings, even though, the doctor admitted to himself, it pained him to see Sherlock scared.

"…don't know where Lestrade was wounded but it appears it wasn't immediately fatal. The ambulance will take him to the nearest hospital where I will go once I've had a briefing with the group around Mr. Stewart's house. This requires delicacy, dealing with a rampant but decorated war hero who has attacked a police team. Thank goodness no-one else was hurt," Mycroft said and when he paused, John really caught look of Sherlock up close.

His face was grey, the jaw tense and he trembled on the spot. John realized the detective was in shock. With his free arm, he reached for the sleeve of the black dressing gown and tugged at it cautiously. "Sherlock?"

"Bullets, armed, ambulance, Brynmawr, hospital, hospital, nearest hospital," Sherlock rambled with a raspy, frantic hiss before he flinched and pulled his arm from John's weak grip.

"Noo!" Sherlock screamed all of the sudden, his eyes shining with madness and John took a step away but Sherlock advanced on him and brutally yanked at his hand which held the phone before bringing it to his mouth.

"The nearest hospital for the cottage west of Brynmawr must be Nevill Hall Hospital in Abergavenny! Don't you see? Stewart's former wife works there and who knows if she blatantly lied to Lestrade's face as she charmed him when they met! Mycroft, stop her from being in the hospital!"

John grimaced when Sherlock tightened his grip on his wrist but let him be. Clearly Sherlock's mind had come to a frightening conclusion in the midst of his terror.

"What on Earth do you mean, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked but they all could tell he was listening with interest.

"Oh, they are so clever! Creating traps in Wales while we secure London from threats. Well done, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart," Sherlock grinned but it was not with glee and John tried to slow him down.

"Wait, what, Sherlock? Now would be a good time to make sense."

"The nearest hospital lies in Abergavenny!" Sherlock repeated fervently. "Mr. Stewart is an anarchist; hates the government and everything that in his opinion belongs to it. So when suddenly patrol cars show up at his isolated home he decides what to do. They are easy targets for a veteran with fairly capable hands which are used of handling weapons. He shoots; and it doesn't matter whether it is to kill or to harm because he has a plan B in store as soon as a cop is hit but not deadly. Stewart has had plenty of time since the shooting to make a phone call in his cottage which is let alone until the ARV's arrive. A phone call to his proclaimed ex-wife!"

As if he was suddenly aware of the way he held John's wrist, Sherlock let go but pensively slid his thumb over John's pulse point and soothed the sting before he whipped around and began to pace the room, talking out loud to John and Mycroft.

"I suspect Mrs. Stewart is in league with her officially former husband, maybe out of love, maybe out of shared animosity towards the pillars of the government but my point is she works at the hospital where they are taking Lestrade! And as a trusted nurse she knows her way in building, and also how to get access to various items with which you can kill a man. So if Miles Stewart doesn't kill a cop outside his doorstep, his dear Alice can finish what he started and they will both be happy over the fact that there is one less police in the country."

Sherlock panted at the end but then gasped at the phone, "Mycroft, you must send people to the hospital now before Lestrade arrives! Find Mrs. Stewart and keep her away from him!"

A cough came from the phone. "I don't say you are wrong, Sherlock, but there are flaws in your thinking. What do you make of the couple's separation or the fact that the woman works day shift and in the cardiology section at that? She will be noticed should she try to sneak into the surgery and _interfere_."

John held his breath as Sherlock exploded. "Noticed, but not stopped! She could have sabotaged everything that Lestrade will need! There will be time later to determine whether she is innocent or not but I _will_ not risk Lestrade's life by overlooking her potential as a murderer!"

Sherlock launched himself at John, probably to snatch the phone from him and scream some more at Mycroft but this time John was ready. He jumped out of the way, swirled around as Sherlock still moved forward, and then threw himself at Sherlock's back, only having enough time to bring up his free arm to Sherlock's face before they crashed into the wall. Sherlock gasped and John grunted when his arm took most of the impact and protected the detective's head although his body slammed against the hard surface.

And after that action, John felt something change. Sherlock's posture went from stiff to soft, he spared some moments to catch his breath instead of hyperventilating, and John secured him between the wall and himself before lifting the hand with the phone.

"Dare I guess what happened over there?" Mycroft said with a little curiosity and John breathed hard. "Just do what Sherlock asked of you, please. Send a car to the hospital and guard Lestrade as well as keep an eye on Mrs. Stewart. We can't afford making any mistakes when it's Lestrade's life on the line. I will take care of Sherlock and order a cab to Wales as soon as possible. I reckon Sherlock wants to personally see the woman and her ex-husband and visit Lestrade."

"No, John. You and my brother will stay in London and I specifically forbid you to leave the city. Do not try to evade me because I have instructed your bodyguards to stop you if you do," Mycroft explained calmly but that only made him and his power more terrifying to John. And he didn't understand much tonight.

"Why?" he asked coolly and Sherlock turned his head towards the source of the sound.

"Anarchists, John. They can form great networks over secret parts of the Internet that even eludes the government. And as I'm sure you have seen on TV, anarchists can be drastic, ruthless, and very dangerous. From what I see, there could be a possibility that some of them are involved in these ugly episodes of violence towards you and DI Lestrade. If they are expecting your travel to Wales after the attempted murder of a police you both know, they could have planned some kind of disruption on the road," Mycroft sighed and then John heard him shift in his car.

"That sounds highly unlikely. After all, you doubt Sherlock's suspicion of Mrs. Stewart's motives and now you're trying to make me believe in a conspiracy that includes every anarchist in Britain! And if there's going to be a fucking ambush in the dark, why are _you_ going by car? I'm sorry but we will go to Wales. Sherlock needs to see Lestrade," John snarled and felt Sherlock begin to shake before him. The poor man was shocked and afraid and John had to help him.

Mycroft replied with utter sternness, "I am not in a cab with thin windows and a low-educated driver. I will be alright should anything happen but you two will not risk your lives this night. Trust me with this investigation and take care of my brother in the meantime."

An impolite click came from the phone and John all but gaped at it. The cordially, correct official had hung up on him! That was something new.

But then Sherlock stirred and John became aware of the fact that he still pinned the detective to the wall, not to treat him as an enemy but as a fellow soldier who needed stability in the chaos, physical closeness as comfort. Still, his arm tingled, perhaps it would bruise thanks to the sharp angles of Sherlock's face, and the detective's adrenalin was leaving him.

Worry for Sherlock washed away John's annoyance with Mycroft, the awareness of Sherlock's tall figure pressed into his front, and the warmth that inevitably spread where only thin fabrics, not air, kept them apart. John staggered back half a step and dumped the silent phone in the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown. His hand brushed against a hip.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

John thought his voice sounded thick but with what? Concern? Compassion? Softness? Sherlock inhaled sharply, still facing the wall, and his pale, long fingers touched the wall as if smoothing out wrinkles.

"Together."

"Sorry, what?" John whispered and when Sherlock unexpectedly turned around, his knees buckled and John threw an arm around his waist to keep him from falling to the hard floor. Somewhere he registered how well Sherlock fitted within the range of his arm and how his hand settled almost naturally on the man's hip. Sherlock gave a sob and crumbled, shattered as he leant into John's chest and buried his head in the crook of his neck.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed but already felt warm drops seep through his t-shirt, a desperate pair of hands tightly clutching the material by his stomach and sobs wrecking the body.

"We are here and he is there. Alone. John, _Lestrade_!" Sherlock cried, the trauma at last pouring out from him. And John immediately hugged him, all previous thoughts of sexual orientation, cigarettes, and bodyguards forgotten. Instead he held Sherlock, the world's greatest consulting detective, as he wept actual tears of anguish for a bleeding friend far away who had been caught in some obscure scheme that John couldn't believe existed and which yet seemed to thrive on the increasing bloodshed.

And John's own misery disappeared, for those who were behind this fucking madness had broken Sherlock Holmes and John would by legal or illegal means make them pay.

In a hushed tone he emitted, "Come. Let's have some tea in the living room."

He wished he could guarantee that Lestrade would live but in this real world, he had to wait with Sherlock for an unpredictable amount of time until Mycroft called back with more information. It would be a hellish night to remember. Sherlock sniffed pitifully, muffled by John's broad shoulder and John held him. Held him.

"John," a hoarse whimper followed by a moan, " _Lestrade_."

John closed his eyes and brushed some black curls from his cheek but ended up caressing the head beside him.

"I know," he stuttered softly and wished away all Sherlock's pain and sadness. But he was only a man with limited powers. "Come, Sherlock. I'll make you some tea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the story has moved forward in many aspects, from emotions to the case... Intense and frightening, or good intense and frightening? Share your thoughts with me, if you want.


	16. The escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock wait for news about Lestrade.

Two hours and not a message from Mycroft.

John rubbed his eyes and shifted on the armrest of the sofa. He had placed himself there for strategic reasons. If he avoided the soft, too comfortable seats, he wouldn't fall asleep. Furthermore, he could easily get on his feet and grab Sherlock should he decide to shoot up from the sofa and resume his pacing. John wanted Sherlock to save his energy until it was really needed.

And John's position made him a head taller than the defeated detective who sat beside him with his legs pulled up and his dressing gown wrapped around the knees. John had draped an arm over Sherlock's shoulders when the sobs continued to shake the upset man and kept it there even though the tears had stopped falling long ago. John just wanted to make Sherlock feel his presence this night. The detective wasn't alone in this nightmare.

A tired head leaned back against the sofa and John glanced at the closed eyes which were rimmed with redness and glistening moisture, the ashen cheeks, the sad mouth. A wave of compassion washed over him and he stroked the most distant shoulder gently.

"John." Ragged, jaded, not louder than a sigh. Sherlock was exhausted but remained worried.

"Yes?" John whispered.

"What does a captain do when he and his company are suddenly surrounded by enemies who shoot at them?" The question was not what John had expected but he would answer Sherlock nonetheless.

"The commanding officer finds the most safe place as fast as possible, a temporary stronghold; maybe a house and stays there until he has more information and control over the situation."

Sherlock sniffed and went on with a small voice, "And when snipers are taking out one man after the other, leaving fewer and fewer soldiers by the captain's side?" John frowned and it felt like he had been punched in the stomach. This wasn't a random inquiry in order to flee from the great, frightening thought that must swirl around in Sherlock's head just like they did in John's.

'Oh, God. I must call Harry and Mrs. Hudson and warn them against this threat. Maybe Sarah, too.'

He was still skeptical towards the presumed anarchistic conspiracy but he couldn't risk them. What if the enemy knew of the women and aimed at hurting John and Sherlock to the core? His voice sounded unsettled as he croaked, "Then you…you fight back, order assistance from the artillery, look for the muzzle flashes from the enemy and fire at them."

The artillery; Mycroft and Scotland Yard. They knew of this, could help John and Sherlock. The lonely dog tag rattled on the chain as John turned his t-shirt clad torso and looked beyond the detective near him. Two half-empty teacups on the table beside a quiet phone, removed blood stains on the other end of the sofa, a dark flat void of light. This case had reached inside their home, disturbed the cozy harbor with blood, brutality and shocks.

Sherlock wriggled and his hands clasped his knees as he finally he opened his eyes but only stared up at the ceiling.

"And what if the artillery is attacked, has to defend itself far away while the captain is trapped in the house? What happens when he is the only one alive and running out on ammunition?" he mumbled and John shuddered from the eerily calmness from Sherlock.

He shook the man's shoulders and gained his attention. With a firm tone he replied, "The artillery is too important to be allowed to fall into enemy hands that easily. Sherlock, there is always help! The soldier mustn't surrender! There is only pain and death waiting for him if he throws down his weapon and becomes a prisoner. Keep fighting, protect yourself, and think of a clever way to get the hell out of the situation!"

A single tear left the dark lashes and tumbled down Sherlock's cheek. "I…I don't know what to do, John. I have no person to deduce, no lead, I can't figure out who the man with the poison was, nor stop the violence. Where is the logic in this? Why is someone trying to harm you, Lestrade, and maybe other people I…"

Sherlock stopped himself but John understood. There were people the supposed sociopath cared about.

"Hey, Sherlock, don't talk like that and don't you dare give up! We need you and your fantastic mind! You are useful and I know you'll crack this riddle as soon as something starts to make sense. I know you feel like shit now but don't doubt yourself."

John spoke with a clear voice and gazed intensely into Sherlock's ice-blue eyes, compelling him to listen. "Sherlock, you are not the surrendering soldier! You are too bloody unique to be that fellow. For as long as I've known you, you've never been resigned, obedient, or submissive. You've never waved a fucking white flag so don't give me that rubbish. You are not giving up because that isn't you. Sherlock, you fight, you get the last word, and you win!"

It seemed like Sherlock hung onto everything John said since his eyes were trained on his mouth. John balled up his free fist and pressed it into his thigh as he willed his friend to see the hope and strength he was sending out to the detective.

"I see," Sherlock emitted but while those words normally were delivered by a cold, detached sneer, they now sounded unsure and quiet; the opposite of the Sherlock John knew. But the doctor saw a glint in the eyes, a spark. Sherlock was summoning the means he needed to keep going. He wasn't entirely defeated and that made John release the breath he wasn't aware he had held.

Black curls tickled the skin on his arm as Sherlock sat back again and made John's arm press into the back of his neck. A very soft, smooth neck at that.

"John?"

John blinked and smiled down at him. There had been a lot of calling him John this night but at least he was glad he was a source of comfort for Sherlock.

"Yes?"

"Tell me a story from Afghanistan. I need, and no offense, distraction. My thoughts are focusing too much on horrible images and facts that don't add up. Tell me a story, please."

There were no layers around Sherlock now. He wasn't ashamed to admit his emotional rather than rational state but John wouldn't tease him for it. On the contrary, he thought Sherlock was fascinating when he was this open and honest. Almost adorable. '

Stop!' John mentally yelled at himself. Sherlock could do without dealing with John's strange sexual thoughts of late.

"Some of the medical personnel had visited the medical school in the city called Jalalabad in the Nangarhar province, eastern Afghanistan, to give the students there advice," John began as he recalled the happy memory. "They showed us the establishment and the atmosphere was peaceful and civil because we were all doctors and nurses sharing medical techniques and knowledge like at a conference. Afterwards, my group said goodbye and we drove up to the mountains that lie west of the city. If we'd turned to the east, we would have ended up right in front of Talibans."

John snickered and although Sherlock didn't join in, he did smile a little. His breathing was calmer and John absently drew patterns with his fingers on Sherlock's upper arm.

"As I'm sure you know, not all of the country is a desert. There are diverse nature zones with different climate, and in our area, oaks grew in a forest and even though we had to keep our eyes open for enemies, the ride was still great. I know the oaks had hard leaves but I swear I could smell their scent."

"Sclerophyll," Sherlock interjected and John raised an eyebrow. "Vegetation that has hard leaves and grows in hot, dry places is called scelrophyll."

Huh. Who knew, except for Sherlock of course?

"Really? Boy, you're brilliant," John praised by habit and a larger smile graced Sherlock's face. John wetted his lips and continued.

"We were very high up so the view between the trees was breathtakingly beautiful. Then the others needed to pee so we stopped and I jumped off the jeep to stretch my legs. I looked at the other side of the road, where no-one stood, and saw this big, blooming Rhododendron. The bush was as big as the jeep's wheel but for Afghanistan and an English soldier who'd seen so many terrible things, that bush was so amazing!"

John saw the softly violet flowers before his eyes, how they had hung heavily on the seemingly fragile but apparently hardy branches. "Violet flowers everywhere, and beauty and it just sort of spoke of the wonderful country that is Afghanistan, untouched by the war And yet…"

John halted his words and felt a lump in his throat as the memory came back to him with full force. But he finished the story.

"And yet that Rhododendron reminded me of home, of England. We have those bushes here too, in gardens on the countryside, in enormous pots and in Richmond Park here in London. I…I was very homesick after that but the memory of the Rhododendron remained dear to me."

When John stopped talking, only silence filled the room for a while. He looked down and saw Sherlock staring up at him with round eyes. He looked positively enthralled. The man was saving his story on his hard drive. John felt moved by that but couldn't explain why. Maybe he was just exhausted.

Quite abruptly, Sherlock turned his head the other way and bent it. A gush of air hit John's knuckles and he stiffened. Sherlock was looking at his hand that previously had moved slowly on his arm. John only saw the white neck and the bobbing curls and it was disconcerting.

"Sher…"

" A thin scar above the cuticle on your index finger."

"What?" John blurted, thrown off his track by Sherlock's comment.

"You heard me. A scar. Here." A cool fingertip touched the area and a jolt went through John upon the contact. "From your time at Bart's when you trained to become an army doctor. You were nervous, made a mistake and cut yourself but it was only a superficial wound. You were still considered to be a good surgeon."

More heat, from Sherlock's mouth as he spoke towards the finger but for some reason he didn't lift his cold finger from John's. Heat and cold. John felt a fluttering in his belly. He mulled over Sherlock's words. He was deducing John as he touched him. But a finger and a scar were casual and not particularly… intimate.

John realized something and nearly fell off the armrest; Sherlock was behaving exactly like John had assumed he would when he _touched_ another human. He deduced. And John had gotten off on it in the shower. He felt a blush creep up his cheeks, ignored the twitch in that lower part, and carefully nudged Sherlock's head forward to free his arm and retract it.

A vice-like grip around his retreating hand startled him and he inhaled sharply. Sherlock had caught him and as he turned his head back to John, his eyes were ablaze with something relentless.

"Why, John? Why have you been touching me like this for days; your friend?"

Guilt filled John and he was disgusted by his own behavior. An old, damaged veteran with ugly scars taking advantage of his scared friend who didn't have an interest in sexual liaisons. The remorse grew worse when Sherlock didn't let go of his hand. And his eyes seemed to burn into John and make a lasting mark on his soul.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I swear I won't do it again," John stammered and miserably hunched his back as he looked away from Sherlock's searching eyes. The doctor needed to hide his feelings better from the perceptive detective. Then the fingers loosened but still held his hand and began to slid back and forth with delicacy. A tender caress.

"John."

He forced himself to meet Sherlock's gaze but his heart leaped when he detected no anger, only nervousness and something warm. Sherlock whispered to him, "What if I _want_ you to touch me?"

***

The phone on the table buzzed and radiated a bluish light, all together shattering the vacuum that had followed Sherlock's hushed words.

His eyes flew from John to the item and the anxious shivers within changed rhythm. He had dared confronting John about the many touches but when John had turned ashamed Sherlock had had to go further. He was nervous, the John's warmth on his shoulders searing through the silken material of his dressing gown but the physical proximity wasn't terrible. A sudden rush went through Sherlock; he wanted John to keep touching him.

John pulled his arm free and held it to his side. A thick, distant voice came from him. "Who will answer?"

Upon hearing the familiar voice laced with something deep, Sherlock tore his eyes from the phone and to John. Involuntarily, he began to blush. A white t-shirt sat snugly on John's torso, the material stretched on his broad shoulders. Only shorts lower down. Sherlock's mouth was dry. His gaze travelled past them and saw John's strong thighs where golden hair decorated the skin. Just like the hair Sherlock had seen on John's chest…

He flinched and observed John's eyes. Cautious, narrowed but his expression seemed dazed and aroused. Sherlock deduced all this within seconds before he caught himself and reached for the phone, grateful for the distraction.

"Yes?"

"You certainly sound more collected now. I have information," Mycroft said in his politician voice and Sherlock thought of Lestrade which once again ignited his worry and distress.

"Mycroft, don't play games with me. Tell me what you know," he fumed and from the corner of his eye he saw John angle his body sideways, towards him. He wanted to listen too, but for some reason Sherlock was hesitant on pressing the speaker button, because the detective didn't want John to hear anything awful. Not after the tale from Afghanistan, the fire, the rat poison in John's veins, the single dog tag. Should it come to that, Sherlock wished to spare John from more horror, or at least tell him in his own words. He wasn't protective, only considerate, or so he told himself.

"DI Lestrade is safe and tended to. Two bullets hit him, one in the right upper arm and the other grazed his abdomen. That was why he bled so much but he looks fine now. Though, he will not be able to speak to you in a while."

Sherlock swallowed drily and ignored John's impatient gesture to make him give a hint of what Mycroft said. "What do you mean? What's the matter with him?" Sherlock exclaimed with panic as images of Lestrade being unconscious or having a breathing tube in his throat. His hands started to shake. Mycroft gave a chuckle.

"No, no, you misinterpreted. Lestrade is still sedated since the operation and I've been informed he will wake up in about four hours. I will be here when he does." Sherlock gave a relieved smile at John who held out his palms to emphasize his incomprehension.

"He's fine," Sherlock emitted before addressing Mycroft again. "What about Mr. Stewart and his wife? Do you have them?"

"Yes, of course we've arrested them! I do know how to handle these things. However, it appears Mrs. Stewart is innocent but my people are investigating her history thoroughly just to be safe. But she will stay at the police station over the night, as will her former husband. He on the other hand is very, how shall I put it, interesting."

"Sherlock, tell me what he says," John urged him and Sherlock considered leaving the sofa and put some distance between himself and John but suspected from the doctor's position that he would give chase and stop him. Just like he had done before. Sherlock thought he could reminiscent the body heat against his back. Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Mr. Stewart is inebriated and we can't extract anything from him except curses. We will wait till morning when he is sober but in the meantime we will check his weapon; an AK-74M from 1997, and his computer. Maybe we will have answers soon."

"Mycroft, _I_ need something to work with here if I am to stay in London. Share something with me!" Sherlock all but begged, feeling superfluous.

"In the morning, brother. Try to sleep."

Mycroft hung up and Sherlock scowled. But then he felt the onslaught of overwhelming emotions. It all came back to him. He had let down his walls before John to for once be…vulnerable. The same thing he felt now when he thought of Lestrade. A sudden terror made his grip around the phone relax and it clattered on the table.

"Sherlock, what did he say?"

Sherlock buried his head in his hands and his damn eyes stung with unshed tears. "I didn't tell Lestrade how dangerous Stewart seemed when I spoke to him on the phone. I knew the man was unstable, a veteran with a mad complex! I should have warned Lestrade, sent him a text before he went to that house! I'm…I'm responsible for what happened to him. John, he was shot because I corrected his grammar instead of warning him!"

Sherlock angrily rubbed his eyes before lifting his head. John carried an equally anguished expression as he shook his head. "No, Sherlock, it wasn't your fault! It was Stewart, not you. I know it, Mycroft knows it and _Lestrade_ knows it. We don't blame you. If anything, _I_ have a part in this."

Sherlock stared at him with confusion. John sighed. "In the hospital, when Lestrade announced he was going to drove to Wales, I told him to be careful when dealing with Stewart. But I should have repeated how dangerous the isolated man was. I should have asked Lestrade to carry a vest."

At that, Sherlock elevated from the sofa and loomed over John before he managed to get on his feet. John looked so worn and yet he took care of Sherlock who didn't deserve his kindness.

"Stop it, John," he mumbled gently, though with pain, "The self-sacrificing martyr role doesn't suit you."

John's eyes turned to steel. "Neither does it become _you_. So can we stop berating ourselves for something that we can't change? It wasn't our fault Stewart went crazy. The important thing is that Lestrade is alive."

That strange, warm feeling filled Sherlock again. John who was his guiding star in goodness. John who was the bravest, loyal, dependable, and amazing person. John who was…his flatmate.

Sherlock frowned and John tilted his head to the side in bewilderment. From his experience on people, a flatmate didn't so comfortably hold, grasp, and touch his friend. A flatmate didn't very often look at the other with such trusting, open, kind, and heated eyes.

Sherlock remembered what he had said before Mycroft interrupted. Now that his shock over Lestrade had subdued, the more place there was in his mind for embarrassment and insecurity. He withdrew from John.

"Sherlock, you…"

"I must start the laptop and hack into the government's system. I must know what information is on Stewart's computer. I will then find notes from the interrogations of Samir, and of course list every store, in London and online that sell gorilla masks," Sherlock rapidly burst out and leaped towards the computer, his mind beginning to spin faster and faster.

Hard steps came from the side and when Sherlock only had written two letters of the password, John dragged him from the device. "No," he said firmly and still trembling, Sherlock ignored the brilliance in his brown eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous! I must work, John! I have wasted so much time when I should be…"

"You have not recovered yet from the shock. Sherlock, _rest_. We can work on the case tomorrow but now we'll take it easy." Sherlock attempted to get past John, even nudged him in the side with a mean elbow so John grunted which gave Sherlock time to pass him. Sherlock bent his back to reach the keyboard again. An unyielding pair of arms wrapped around his lean frame and pulled him away, moved him to the wall where John secured him after having turned him around. Sherlock grew frustrated. Didn't John see he was in a flow?

"Step aside! I'm not tired and I want to work!" Sherlock snarled when a palm slammed into the wall and silenced him. John's face was set in a mask of sternness.

"I said no! You're exhausted!" he shouted but Sherlock didn't want to hear that.

"It was my fault! Lestrade bled because of me!" Sherlock roared and noticed with contempt how his voice broke at the end. John came closer and he had red cheeks from after the short wrestle and his breath came out in shallow puffs that his Sherlock's neck.

"Stop it. Even soldiers need sleep. If you don't intend to take care of yourself, then I will." Sherlock understood the metaphor from his talk with John on the sofa but wasn't about to obey just yet.

"Why? Why are you doing that; taking care of me all the time, cooking dinner for me, working at the clinic so we can afford a rent while I am occupied with a stupid adventure? Why are you touching me, and holding me, and why am I running into your bedroom when I hear bad news about Lestrade, and why do you hate your scars which don't mar you, and why do you immediately assume you are rejected when I point out you are touching me, and why would it suddenly be wrong to touch me when I only say I'm aware of it?

Why, John, do you constantly seek out my presence after a man has poisoned you, why did I nuzzle your cheek when I breathed into you, why don't you have dates anymore, why do you stand living with me, and why are you ignoring my question: what would you do if I say I want you to touch me?"

Sherlock was sweetening but wouldn't take off his dressing gown until John had delivered a lengthy explanation. John was pale now, studying him with something close to anxiety and took a slow step towards the corridor; from the detective.

"You can't run, John. Mycroft's men guard the house. Tell me; is it that dreadful to be trapped here with me?" Sherlock asked silently and knew he was in deep water now, swimming near something he had never explored. What was right and what was wrong to do? John clenched his fists by his sides and glowered at him.

"Christ, don't be so bloody cruel when you talk about these things," he whispered with urgency and the darkness swallowed the look in his brown wells, a detail of which Sherlock didn't approve. Still, there was something merciful with a room veiled by shadows.

Leaving the safety by the wall, Sherlock approached John, uncertainty in his stomach but desire in his heart. He wanted to kiss John again, press the lips against his, only this time not out of need to breathe for John, or out of panic mingled with relief as a bleeding John accepted an ambulance. Sherlock wanted John's lips properly this time, out of need to connect with him, console him, feel the human emotion called passion.

Sherlock was very close, saw the glint of fire burn in John's eyes and bent down, wetting his lips in the last second, felt a big, calloused hand settled on his neck but not stopping him as he went for John's mouth.

"No." An upset sob was wrenched from John and Sherlock rested in the air, merely an inch from John's soft lips. The hand slid down his sensitive neck but was removed little by little as it reached his Adam's apple. Sherlock exhaled deeply and saw John take the air through his barely open mouth, his decision wavering but then he let go of Sherlock.

"We can't. The horrible case, and then the shock tonight… We are exhausted. We wouldn't be doing this if…"

"I'm perfectly sound, John. I want you; a kiss for now," Sherlock nearly pleaded and there was torture and longing in John's eyes.

"Seriously, what are we doing? This case, can't you see? It's affecting us, pushing us to our limits until we snap. We…I…I'm sorry. I need my energy back," John groaned and when he was this close, Sherlock could detect the beginning of dark bags under John's eyes. Yes, this case was troubling both of them on a personal level. He fixed his gaze on the ruffled blonde hair on John's crown. Had he ever studied the texture of John's hair? John shifted before he spoke.

"I'll stay here and keep an eye on you throughout the night but please don't disturb me unless it has something to do with Lestrade or your shock. I can't manage anything else."

John wiped his forehead with a seemingly heavy arm and his shoulders slumped. Sherlock felt sorry for him, realizing that whereas he had been insistent on confronting John and try something new between them, perhaps John wasn't ready no matter what his body language said. The detective gestured at the sofa.

"Take the sofa. I will guard the phone and think in my armchair. I promise I will stay away from the computer and not force you to struggle with me anymore."

Though, Sherlock admitted to himself, it was surprisingly thrilling when John held him against walls with such force. John didn't reply and only stumbled over to the sofa and lay down, and exhaled so loudly it tugged at something inside Sherlock. This soldier carried too heavy a burden so that the other soldier, Sherlock, wouldn't have to.

"John." A whisper in the dark.

"What?" No animosity at least.

"If I don't think there's anything wrong with you, and you don't think there's anything wrong with me despite what we or others think; then maybe we could fit together, more than how we do now."

"Relax, Sherlock. I will call in sick tomorrow but would appreciate sleep anyway. I imagine our schedule will be filled."

Sherlock bit his lip but tripped to the armchair and sat down. He had bared himself to John. It was worrying that John's reaction hadn't been what he had expected but all the same, he hadn't fled either. Interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting heated between those two. Thank you all for the comments, the kudos, and the follows! They do inspire me to write more. And to prove that I'm not making things up, here's the source I used for the facts about the vegetation in Afghanistan, with a link to a map of the country: http://www.ag-afghanistan.de/files/breckle_flora.pdf


	17. The freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fight, John remains unsure on where they stand, whereas Sherlock gets interested in finding the gorilla mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the slight delay but it was my first day back at the uni yesterday and I was completely drained when I got home. Hopefully this juicy chapter will make up for the waiting. Enjoy the chapter!

"Hi. It's John."

She perceived his troubled tone. "What's wrong now?"

John grimaced and shifted the phone against his ear, dread already pooling in his stomach because of what he had to do. "Sarah, I won't come to the clinic today. We have a case," he let out and heard the sigh.

"It isn't a surprise to me by now that you sometimes disappear with Sherlock but couldn't you have informed me at least some days ago? You're putting me on the spot here, John."

Sarah was dismayed, and rightly so. John glanced at his image in the mirror in his bedroom and saw he had begun to flush from shame and the red colour didn't exactly compliment his blue jumper. He was mortified but there was no other way; he had to be with Sherlock today. Besides, he suspected Mycroft's guards outside the house would stop him should he even attempt to go to work.

"Sorry, but I can't do anything about it. Something has…"

"I know you only work part-time at the moment but I still need you. You've seen them too; the rows of children and adults who have come down with the flu. What shall I do now; rewrite the whole schedule I've done for the personnel? And what about Christmas, huh? Will you be here as you promised when I'm on my holiday?" Sarah said and her anger was very tangible.

John bent his head and shuffled to a wall to lean against it. "Actually, I think it's a good you're going to be abroad soon. I was trying to say that something has happened."

John hesitated, deciding which details he should include and whether he should tell Sarah at all and make her afraid. But in his mind he had already made his choice and so, he continued, "I'm hunted by some criminals. It started with the arson in the flat and since then it's escalated. Sherlock and I have worked on this case for a long time and it's only gotten bigger. Samir, you know, he's been threatened by a gangster in order to harm me. That's why his place is closed. And I have bodyguards now following my every move when I'm outside. And last night…"

John hesitated but since Sarah hadn't exploded yet he went on. "We've traced a man to Wales. We sent Lestrade there to investigate. But last night he was shot by the man. He's okay but it made me fear what might happen to the other people in my life. Sarah, I want you to be careful and I'm sorry for the inconvenience but I can't work at the moment. Not until Sherlock has solved the case."

"Jesus Christ! John, I… But Lestrade is a DI, right? You can't just shoot a DI," Sarah commented with a shaken murmur and John's features contorted in anguish. He was so tired and confused and wounded.

"I assure you that wasn't what the bastard thought yesterday. There's a lot that doesn't make sense to me and I'm getting the impression this case is all over the pace. But don't worry; I'll stay away from you and then you'll fly away soon so you will be safe. I promise."

"But what about you, John? You can't go through this alone."

Quiet steps sounded through the closed door. Sherlock had passed the bedroom. Suddenly John's jaw was tenser than before. "I'm not. I've got the government and the police backing me up. And Sherlock is by my side."

As always.

Beside him like a trustworthy person who loved…

John fisted his hand and dug the nails into his palm. His whole world had been turned over within a matter of days and he couldn't grasp nor comprehend everything that he felt. With a little stuttering he added, "I'll be fine. Although I apologize for the work."

"Oh, sod the clinic! After all, I got through last winter when you and Sherlock had another case. You just take care of yourself, you hear me!" Sarah's command caused John to relax his hand and he allowed his shoulders to be let down some inches. She believed in him, and trusted this case would be solved like all the others. It was heartwarming.

"Okay. I do think I'm more protected now than in the army so whoever is out there won't get me that easy."

Sarah chuckled. "Sounds good. I'll see you later then?" Her conviction that this case was as normal as any moved John.

"Yeah. Bye," he uttered and hung up. With a loud exhale he rested his head to the wall and felt finished somehow. He had already called Harry and Mrs. Hudson who had of course been very scared for him; Harry even demanding to visit but he stopped her by mentioning the guards Mycroft had sent to supervise the house.

In the end all the women had been less concerned about their own safety and the more horrified for his sake. But for his peace of mind they had agreed on keeping their distance until the crimes had stopped. They should be safe; or at least John prayed they would.

With defeated features he opened the door and went through the corridor to the living room. Sherlock looking immaculate in a black suit, his hair combed so the curls were somewhat tamed and his frame eagerly bent towards the laptop as he scanned the Internet for something useful. John experienced an awful sinking and perfectly recalled the late hours when Sherlock had asked him so many provoking questions and asked _of_ him to do things to him; let him go, let him work, tell him a story, touch him.

Suddenly the t-shirt and jumper were very warm and constricting for John but he tried to compose himself and not blush too much. It wasn't as if he had been surprised by the forward way Sherlock had adopted when confronting him, for the detective had always been blunt when serious. No, the problem lay in the nature of Sherlock's questions. When John was beyond confusion himself, how would he be able to talk some sense into an equally confused flatmate?

He had avoided the interrogation by blaming their lack of sleep but John knew he had merely temporarily evaded Sherlock. Still, John wondered if he somehow had driven Sherlock to this; forcing a sexuality upon him when the man had stated and proved several times that he wasn't interested in that kind of personal trait.

Didn't Sherlock know that John didn't mind him being the way he was, without boyfriends or girlfriends? Did Sherlock fear that John would leave him if he didn't deepened their relationship to the level which everyone around had thought at least once the doctor and the detective would reach eventually? And they never understood, did they? That what John and Sherlock had was more profound than a usual flatmate arrangement but also special in many ways; for example that they weren't a gay couple.

Because a sociopath asking of a man to touch him was only a sign of distress. A stressed man wanking in the shower to the thoughts of the only man he had latched onto was only an experiment in turn-ons. Tingles buzzing through a doctor whenever he held a taller man against a wall and pressed his body into him to keep him from escaping was, well, maybe not normal but certainly not…sexual.

John took a ragged breath and watched Sherlock's back stiffen but otherwise he didn't move from the screen. He had met Sherlock in the extreme last night. Sad, anguished, hurt, defeated but also clever, radiating, strong, and tender. And through it all, John hadn't wanted to get out of it once. He wasn't deterred like strangers by Sherlock's mood swings. But to see Sherlock closing in, licking his lips with a quick tongue, bending his head to kiss John… It had been too much.

John couldn't take that from Sherlock. Sure he had strange, intimate thoughts about him but that didn't give him right to take advantage of a distressed Sherlock, or steal a kiss from him for that matter. If Sherlock was as innocent in that area as John guessed, then he had little knowledge of how to cope with baffling thoughts during a trauma. Maybe kisses had become Sherlock's way of coping, like when John had gotten the nosebleed. But Sherlock shouldn't feel obligated to please John in that way because he didn't owe him anything. John had to tell him that.

He cleared his throat. "Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around in the chair and his grey eyes were sharp and diligent in the morning now that the nightmare had faded.

"What?" Too serious, bordering on angry. John carefully stepped towards him and felt his scent of spicy cologne which reminded him of Sherlock's sweet breath he had accepted in the hospital and here in the flat when he with great effort stopped himself from doing something very foolish with Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" he asked the detective. A shadow fell over Sherlock's face and painted him impenetrable and solid. The fact that Sherlock had brought up his walls again and wouldn't be as open saddened John.

"I have located seventeen stores in London so far that could have gorilla masks for sale. And since Mycroft said I should stay I assume I am allowed to work within the city. With some help from my dear brother I'm sure the stores will give me access to the CCTV so I can have a look."

_I_ , not _we_.

Had John ruined Sherlock's trust in him? The doctor smiled joylessly. "Good job, Sherlock. Do you want me to come too or…?"

The question was left hanging in the air between the two men. John wouldn't blame Sherlock if he chose to work alone. Not only had John obviously, though not intentionally, hurt him yesterday, but also had a target on his back. Sherlock wriggled his feet and stated clearly, "Of course I want you with me. You're my assistant." Why did it sound like Sherlock meant something else?

"Listen, about last night…"

"John, _forget_ it. As you said; we were exhausted. Now, are you ready to encounter Mycroft's men?" Sherlock said haughtily with a bitter lack of consideration that harmed John.

"Don't stab me, Sherlock."

He was devastated that their conflict had led to this. But then Sherlock straightened up and left the chair to stand tall before John with appropriate distance. "It will be efficient if we stay together today. If we receive messages from Mycroft we will both know immediately, if we are outside we need each other to watch our backs and I need a blogger to record the working process."

Sherlock's eyes softened and his voice wasn't dead anymore. "Besides, I believe both of us could benefit from a day with only investigation on our minds."

Eventually John realized Sherlock wasn't about to mention the shared words in the darkness. Still, he had a hunch Sherlock was feigning his indifference and it wouldn't do for him to blow off steam in the middle of London. It wasn't out of fear for an embarrassing scene but concern that made John ask objectively, "Are you sure we can leave the flat? I don't fancy running off and getting chased by one of the guards."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully and brushed off his jacket before answering, "London is my zone according to Mycroft. I will insist we are being let out or else someone will have the pleasure of explaining to my brother what we are doing in _Wales_. Now grab your winter coat and dress warmly; it's rather snowy outside and we have many CCTV storage centers to visit."

The normality eased John's mind and he argued to himself that there would be plenty of time later to address the predicament of their relationship. "Okay, so what do I need apart from the garments?" You never knew with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stopped in his track towards the hallway and turned around with a crease between his brows. "Why, your gun of course. Hurry up, John."

John's smile fell as the normality flew out the window. There was nothing ordinary about this case and he would be an idiot if he didn't tell himself that.

***

As they rode the lift down, Sherlock was saved from boredom by a text from Mycroft. He held his breath.

_Lestrade awake. Expect contact later. Mrs. Stewart released; guards still on the hospital so be calm. Interrogation initiated with Mr. Stewart. Cannot leave details yet._

"Mycroft won't give me the details about Stewart! What is he afraid of; a menace to the state from terrorists?" Sherlock tsked and watched John shrug and purse his lips before burying his chin in his scarf. It was fine; Sherlock was used of John not giving him significant attention whenever he scorned his brother. Sherlock texted back.

_Appreciated the thorough report. Call me if it's unsafe to ride the tube due to hostile activity. John and I plan to spend the day playing cat-and-mouse with your well-trained agents. Desist from sharing info on Stewart and I won't share what I find out today._

Just as the door opened, Sherlock's phone began to ring. "You're not going to answer?" John asked plainly as he gestured at him to leave the lift first. Sherlock sighed dramatically and despite the black glove he was agile enough to block the call as his phone lay in his pocket.

"No. Mycroft had it coming. Though, we will have at least one agent in company today," Sherlock retorted and braced himself for the cold as they went outside. Almost immediately a man in a brown hat and a black coat with furred collar approached them. Sherlock considered making a run for it but then decided it was better to get it over with now and possibly negotiate about his freedom.

"Mr. Holmes. I suggest you get back inside. It's a bit nippy today; both detectives and criminals will stay at home today," the man stated hoarsely and studied first Sherlock and then John with more curios eyes which made Sherlock feel a twinge of annoyance.

"Doctor's orders, I'm afraid. A walk in the fresh air will do me good. I was told by my brother London would be perfect today. I'm sure you agree, sir." By phrasing it so, Sherlock only bent the truth a little to his advantage. Then he nudged John on the arm to indicate that they should start walking past the guard. The man however took a bold step forward and invaded Sherlock's space.

"Mr. Holmes! I _urge_ you to return to your flat. I'm convinced Mycroft would be more comfortable in Wales if he knew you were working _at home_ today. Don't you think?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste and began to observe the middle-aged man. After a while he grinned like a shark and made sure he looked stronger, taller, and younger; not an easy prey for an experienced but battered and cold agent.

"For what it's worth I will spare you a straining run by pointing out that John and I will confine ourselves within the city and there are plenty of cameras so Mycroft will hardly lose sight of us. Tell him that when he panics and calls you himself. Go and buy a hot cup of tea now," he delivered with a fake smirk and was relieved when he saw the man back away, apparently knowing when he was defeated by arguments.

"Fine then. But it's my bloody head, Mr. Holmes," the agent snarled and shoved his bare hands into his pockets. Sherlock brushed past him and began to walk briskly down the street towards a more noisy street where cabs would be available. "Come along, Jon," he called and the amazed doctor hurried to his side.

An hour later they had gotten access to the numerous tapes in a CCTV center where four of the costume stores were clients. Sherlock had pulled the Mycroft card and after that everything went smoothly. He and John were escorted to a windowless room with three chairs, a long desk and three screens along with technical devices and digital registers with the footage arranged chronically. Sherlock managed to get them privacy although the female guide frowned sternly before she closed the heavy door to the Spartan and dimly lit room.

Without wasting time, Sherlock shrugged off his coat and removed his gloves and scarf before looking into the recording from only a few days ago. He heard John taking off his jacket too but didn't look at him as he plopped down in the chair and began to handle his own computer. Sherlock was capable of simultaneously checking two screens.

John managed to prepare his own recording and leant back in his chair on Sherlock's right so the cheap wood creaked. "What are the instructions? What shall I look for?" he asked with a hushed voice, as if the small space demanded silence. Sherlock determinedly looked between the screens with black and white images of two different shop counters and avoided John's gaze.

"Anyone who buys a gorilla mask. Write down the time, the store and a description of their appearances. Though, keep an eye out for the big man who threatened Samir; you have the description."

"Okay," John emitted and then the tedious work began. As Sherlock started to fast-forward he kept his eyes trained on the items in the customers hands as well as their body language but he found himself occasionally looking over at John who rested his chin on his palm with an elbow on the desk.

Sherlock had balance again. After John had asked to be let alone last night the man had recollected the shards that was him and rebuilt a capable detective. Now he was more than eager to catch the criminal and bring an end to this not fascinating case.

But even when his mind had a goal, Sherlock felt deeply affected by John. His skin itched to feel John against him; to touch him. It became a mantra his body repeated to the rhythm of his accelerating heart which disturbed Sherlock when he should concentrate on the CCTV. Slowly, his poised figure relaxed in the chair and his eyes often wandered from the screens to John. How many hours had passed now; two and a half?

Sherlock pushed a button to rewind a bit which he had missed when he had glanced at John. The air in the small room was growing warmer from the buzzing devices, aided by their body heat. Scents developed easily in a humid surrounding. John tugged off his blue jumper and was left in a white t-shirt that left little to imagination. His dog tag rattled upon the movement and Sherlock flexed his stiff fingers but couldn't bring his face away from the captivating sight beside him.

Oblivious, John resumed his position with his mouth on his hand and stared at the screen. A small crescent had developed under his armpit and Sherlock was positive he could taste the salt in the air. A strong upper arm bulged and the bared flesh looked soft and firm at the same time. Sherlock needed to examine it. A patch beside John's left shoulder blade protruded into the white fabric and Sherlock knew it consisted of pale, ultra-sensitive skin to be an eternal memento worth investigating as it made its carrier unique. John's scar.

A rustle was heard when John shifted and arched his back, probably to stretch. Sherlock felt warmer than what was comfortable and quickly turned his head forward. Damn. All he could think of was John, John, John.

Sherlock's brows drew together and he lowered his eyes in confusion as the insistent waves of tickles rushed over him. He had unbuttoned his black jacket some hour ago and now he noticed how pink his usually pale hands looked against the sleeve of his shirt. He was very warm in the stifling heat. Sherlock dropped his gaze further and his spine pushed into the back of the chair when a surprising fact hit him; he could clearly see the taut, pointy nubs on his chest.

Sherlock's jaw went slack in bewilderment as he studied his apparent nipples. This rarely happened to him but when it did he always cursed his habit of wearing tight shirts although the clothes allowed him to move silently and unrestricted, like an athlete, and at the same time made him look smart.

But Sherlock knew his biology. When it was a warm and pleasant temperature, nipples as well as hair in his nape stayed flat and normal. This room was not cold so something else was affecting him to have this reaction and Sherlock tryingly moved forward so the shirt slid over the two dots. Nothing happened; the fabric was of soft linen and couldn't have stirred the sensitive nipples by brushing against them. So that left emotions to be the cause.

Suddenly self-conscious of his body's behaviour, and embarrassed by the prospect of John discovering it, Sherlock promptly buttoned his jacket and ignored the warmth which would soon make him sweat and stain his shirt. He drew a deep breath through his nose and ruffled his hair which became curlier the longer he sat in the room. Sherlock was furious at his burning cheeks and could only hope John would figure it was the temperature, not a blush.

"…could be a gorilla mask but it's a little girl buying it. Well, best to not take any chances and bugger up," John muttered and wrote something on his notepad, unaware that Sherlock hadn't listened.

"Yes, fine," Sherlock croaked but roused no suspicion and found himself spellbound by the way John opened and closed his mouth when he spoke. How he wanted to smother out the troubled wrinkles on the soldier's face. John's soft lips panting before him, taking his breath in a hospital bed and in a darkened living room.

A pulse shot through Sherlock and he looked down again, expecting his nipples to misbehave again but then he noticed his crotch hidden in the shadow below the desk. A small but definitively real bulge. As the revelation hit him, his wrist bumped against the table's surface when it slid from the keyboard and it was a miracle John didn't turn his head. Sherlock closed his eyes but the image was imprinted on his mind; a semi-full erection.

When had this happened? Why hadn't Sherlock read his own body and prevented this from happening before it had become such a large problem? Angered by his physical vessel betraying his want for John, Sherlock moved like a bolt and was up from the chair and throwing the coat over his shoulders within seconds and John flinched upon the sudden noise.

"What?" he asked and his brown eyes had watered after the long study of the recordings. Sherlock buttoned his coat and hid away the evidence of his arousal and desire. He felt somewhat awkward, a pretty abnormal state for the sociopath. But Sherlock only knew one thing, which kept nagging his brain; if he spent another minute in the narrow space with John, he _wouldn't_ be embarrassed anymore, only driven by his lust to profess his deep feelings for the unassuming doctor.

"We need to go. Another center… Now, let's go, John," Sherlock let out tersely and rolled his head on his shoulders and experienced the dampness clinging to his skin.

John turned concerned and angled his torso to Sherlock. "Sherlock, are you alright? You look very warm."

"Of course I am warm! It's insufferable in here! I…I need to get out to the cold," Sherlock snapped and that brought John to action. He closed the program and gathered his notes before getting up and grabbing his jacket. Sherlock was beside himself and only felt the stale, hot air and the pulsing thing down there and he gulped as subtly as he could.

"Old bloody buildings; bad ventilating systems. But I think we could both use a break and walk to the next center, if you're up for it," John proposed and everything was John's familiar, soothing voice, his scent mingled with musky perspiration and Sherlock recalled how soft John's lips were…

"It's…it's difficult to breathe. Open the door," he said with a shaken tone and John came to his side, too close, and gripped his arm. The shirt was so tight across his chest. "Sherlock, take it easy and move aside a little so I can get to the door and open it."

John talked with a calm authority and guided the nauseous Sherlock to the side before letting go and reaching for the handle. With a groan the door swung open and cool, fresh air streamed inside and made Sherlock feel less dizzy.

A careful shake on his arm. He numbly looked down, still lightheaded and saw John's alarmed face. "How are you?"

"Splendid. Let's leave this place."

There was a bite to Sherlock's words but all he really wanted was to get outside and make his erection subside. He firmly told himself he had control over his body. Though, that didn't explain why he marched off without as much as checking that John followed him. He just couldn't bear to look at the doctor because of his red-hot, flowing desire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, they are so kidding themselves! Bear with me, we've arrived at the point where Sherlock and John are aware of their own feelings and clearly are attracted to each other so just wait for the next, very readable chapter, hehe :) Sherlock was the way he was because haven't you all experienced a warm but also nauseous feeling when you're close to your crush. Love-sickness is the proper word, I believe. Until tomorrow, I promise!


	18. The protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another CCTV center but everything changes here for John and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I hope to spur the following feelings: happiness, amusement, fear, surprise, sadness (and not necessarily in that order!). Enjoy!

The walk through the snowy city did it. As Sherlock's blood chilled because of the brutal wind, he found himself breathing again and gaining control over his primal urges. John's shoes made odd noises every time he stepped on the white ground but that was the only thing Sherlock registered about the man. It was all fine.

Later, the two of them found themselves in a brighter and more modern center and once more, Sherlock mentioned the _government's_ name and was led to another windowless screening room.

As the detective brushed off the flakes from his coat and inspected the newer equipment which required no tapes; only digital footage, John closed the door and took off his scarf.

"You feeling better now?"

Sherlock gave him a quick smirk before preparing the equipment and enjoying the cushioned, stylish chair. "Yes. Let's begin the search for our man," he answered and brought his attention to the screen. The devices were easy to maneuver and soon he was surveying what had happened in a costume shop in Soho five weeks ago.

John managed on his own apparently since he didn't ask for any help and silence settled in the room. Though, Sherlock slowly came to wonder whether they _should_ talk a little because the task of watching black and white recorded films didn't exactly demand the entire capacity of their brains. They used to at least share some comments when working on cases before. Did this moment however count as an awkward one? Sherlock was clueless; his knowledge of mundane situations between normal people lacking somewhat.

"John?" he said and the doctor turned his head and how had Sherlock not noticed earlier that the blue jumper brought out the gold in John's shining hair? 'Stop it!'

"What?"

Sherlock pressed the pause button and jerked his gaze to John's eyes instead. "How many customers who bought gorilla masks did you see in the other center?"

John unconsciously glanced at his notepad as he remembered before emitting, "Only eleven in total; including the ones you discovered. And none of them looked particularly nervous or suspicious. I mean, it was Halloween and eight of them were kids."

"Just make sure you don't write anyone off only because they are short, dressed in horrible colours, and have pigtails," Sherlock remarked but then John's features darkened.

"I _know_ , Sherlock! I only meant it seems unlikely that we'll find him when all we see is, in your opinion, ridiculous children. And I doubt any of them are potential gangsters or involved in these crimes!"

Sherlock tensed his jaw and morosely turned back to his screen. He hadn't expected John to be annoyed. Were they fighting now?

"Those who are behind the case have surprised us so far. I wished but to remind you of that," he mumbled and beside him, John shifted and opened his mouth to reply when Sherlock's phone began to ring. The detective hauled it up and didn't bother reading since he already knew who it was.

"No, your man isn't a traitor to the country because he let us go alone. I can vouch for him if you plan to bring him to court-martial," Sherlock drawled but as a heavy breathing reached his ear, he realized it wasn't Mycroft.

A shiver ran down his spine and his abilities became alert at once and Sherlock subtly rolled out his chair so he could cover John and be the first one in sight for anyone who barged through the door. He planted his feet on the ground and gripped the armrest with his free hand, not for mental support but so he could fling himself with more force towards anyone who entered and disarm them.

"Erm, I'm pretty certain I don't have the authority to stage a court-martial" a raspy voice said hesitantly and Sherlock hissed from the anticlimax and the fright he had felt for a second.

"Lestrade. Breathe in before you call me, otherwise you're wasting my time with silence," he growled and swung around in the chair to see John curiously looking at him. The ex-soldier hadn't perceived the almost-peril they had been in but that only made Sherlock feel more at ease. John hadn't been scared and he didn't deserve any more fear.

Lestrade huffed and cleared his throat. He was lying down, Sherlock could tell. "Nice to hear from you, too. How I am? Oh, merely bruises and scratches, thanks for asking. You really know what to say to a wounded victim," the DI commented with sarcasm despite the fact that Sherlock never was deterred by that.

"Fine, I hope you're recovering as you should. We all know how incompetence and misunderstandings in hospitals lead to infections and casualties," Sherlock said honestly, wishing the best for Lestrade, when John hissed from his place, "Sherlock, stop talking like that to him!" Sherlock halted his words and focused on more important things than trivialities.

"How are your wounds?"

A hoarse chuckle escaped Lestrade which quickly turned into a pained wince. "Ouch, my stomach hurts like hell. I'm bloody stuck to this bed and ordered to stay still for a while. And with my right arm…my right arm isn't right. Did you hear; not right, Christ that's funny!"

Lestrade erupted into a fit of laughter mingled with groans and Sherlock dubiously listened to the _very_ amused police. "You're drugged. How much morphine did they actually administer to you?"

"As much as I wanted for the pain. Sherlock, you know you sound very serious. I…I can tell you another joke and make you snicker. Or do you ever snicker, Sherlock?"

It was deeply disconcerting to have the usually somber and stressed man so carefree. A thought crossed Sherlock's mind. "Are you able to hold the phone yourself?"

A snort came from the DI. "No, one of Mycroft's merry agents is lending me a hand. Wait! I know a bar joke with that punch line!"

"Lestrade, please concentrate and give me data on Stewart. How was he? What did he look like last night?" Sherlock interjected before the DI grew childish again.

Air wheezed as it was forced out through gritted teeth. So Lestrade really needed the morphine badly then.

"I've handled drunk girls in bar fights who have been easier to deal with. That bastard out in Brynda…, Brawnmyd…, whatever, was a fighter. Though, I didn't exactly see much of the action after he had shot me. I was busy stopping the blood and staying conscious and…"

Lestrade paused to take a labored breath and while he did, Sherlock let himself relive the dread from yesterday after he had gotten the news about Lestrade. "But what did you _see_?" he urgently inquired and stared at his big screen where an older lady carrying a princess dress approached the counter. A hollow voice filled his ear.

"A shaking head, stained but practical clothes. Two hands on a big gun, an AK I've been told. He screamed at us when we approached. Not words, just screams. Like mad battle cries. He…"

Lestrade faltered but Sherlock gave him time to muster his courage.

"Stewart opened fire at us. He hit a car; I heard the bullet pierce the metal, and when I was about to shout to everybody to get down, my arm was hit. I spun around involuntarily and that's when he got my side. Pretty good aiming skills for a drunk, unstable veteran in a dark winter night, I say. Though, I didn't benefit from that."

Sherlock leaned back in the chair. So it was affirmed; Stewart's disfigured hand was as capable as his other.

"Why didn't you wear the vest or were more cautious like I and John said?"

The question Sherlock hadn't solved on his own and which made him feel as if he was to blame for the things that had happened to Lestrade. A small curse came from the wounded man before he stated, "It was my fault. After I heard the local colleagues refer to Stewart as nothing more than a harmless idiot, I decided to skip the vest. I was warm anyway in all my clothes and didn't fancy sweating like a pig during the ride to Stewart's cottage."

Sherlock tapped his knee and assumed he had gotten enough information for now from the tired police.

"I see. Well, at least you won't have to endure that awful inn now. I have to work, so promise you will recover as expected."

"Thanks, Sherlock. And I know how a goodbye from you sounds like. Bye," Lestrade delivered before he, or rather the agent, hung up.

Sherlock placed his phone in his pocket and pulled at the bottom of his jacket to straighten it. He knew the drill by now and rapidly explained to John, "Lestrade is fine, only a bit groggy from the drugs. Stewart can use both his hands adequately, so he clearly could have carried gasoline to our flat and set it on fire. All we can do now is check the CCTV and wait for Mycroft to report back from Stewart's interrogation."

Instead of behaving like he used to, and say something, John crossed his arms in front of him and frowned as he studied Sherlock from head to toe.

"What?" Sherlock uttered and then the flutter started again as if it belonged to John and was only shared with the detective at the most inconvenient times, for example when Sherlock knew John's eyes travelled over his body. John narrowed his eyes. "Don't you think I saw?"

Sherlock missed the rewind button and his nail hit the desk hard. No, he was perfectly composed. With a calm demeanour, he turned towards the doctor and lifted an eyebrow. "Saw what, exactly?" he said with a bored tone when on the inside his heart stumbled and his subconsciousness cried that John logically couldn't have seen the erection. The angle had been wrong for his line of sight and Sherlock had been so quick when he put on his coat. Hadn't he?

The detective stopped musing when John held out the palms at his sides and exclaimed with a slightly shrill noise, "How you moved to be in front of me after your whole body froze when you answered the phone. You didn't know it was Lestrade, right? You thought it was someone else. Someone dangerous!"

John's eyes widened at the end of his sentence and Sherlock briefly took in his appearance. The doctor was building up steam and wouldn't be stopped by anything Sherlock said to parry him. John let out an exasperated sound and uncrossed his legs.

"Sherlock, you deliberately put yourself between me and the door when you thought there was a threat! I honestly can't imagine why _you_ of all people would do something so _stupid_!"

A crazed laugh which held no joy left John and Sherlock almost wanted to cower from the ex-soldier's fury but kept sitting immobile as John flew up and began to stalk back and forth in the small room.

"I have been in a war and enough cases with you to have learned some strategies. Yes, I was an army doctor but also a _captain_ and I was out there with the boys. The one who guards an entrance can surprise whoever wants to get through, I give you that. But I saw the danger too and I have my gun here; it's loaded and everything! So thanks for the gallant gesture but I never asked you to pay the part of a martyr. Martyrs get themselves _killed_ , Sherlock! I've seen that in Afghanistan on both sides!"

John's shout bounced on the walls and made Sherlock's ear drums prickle. His lips twisted and he decided to defend himself. "I didn't do it for me; I did it to protect you!" he protested but fell quiet when John cried out and slammed his chair into the wall. Marks now marred the floor and the wall. The personnel wouldn't be pleased.

"I don't need you to protect me! I can shoot a man through two windows twenty yards away! I can combat fucking ninjas in a circus and I can take care of myself if I'm in any kind of danger!"

"My, isn't this a change from the exhausted, frightened man. Well, I apologize for what I did without thinking and we are all aware of the foolish things people do when they are not using their intelligence," Sherlock snarled with irony and watched John whirl around and bare his teeth at him.

"Don't give me that shit! We could have taken on whatever came through the door together! Sherlock, I _never_ wanted you to shelter me and put yourself in danger!" he roared before marching towards Sherlock and hauling him up by his jacket. John's brown eyes glimmered, his face was pink, he panted, and his chest met Sherlock's by every inhalation.

John was angry because Sherlock had been prepared to sacrifice himself, not because Sherlock hadn't allowed him to fight by his side. Sherlock was mute and the sensation of John holding him again made the nerves in his fingers tingle. John looked so angry, only some inches away and the warmth of his rage made his scents spread. An intoxicating perfume of salty perspiration and cozy clothes.

"Say something," the doctor let out with a much gentler voice than Sherlock had anticipated and he swallowed to desperately keep his sanity.

"I never doubt your strength but someone almost killed you twice. I have underestimated these criminals before but I promise there won't be a third attempt. I would rather place myself in front of you than see them succeed, and you are worth it, John," Sherlock whispered with the rumbling voice of his.

***

His heart pumped so hard, John felt as if his ribs would bruise.

His anger melted away, though it hadn't really been fury; only deep concern for Sherlock. And yet he had seen the detective on many occasions break into houses, run past guard dogs, experiment with acids, and corner armed criminals.

He knew Sherlock had a way of getting out of trouble but even so, the sight of Sherlock stiffening when he answered the phone, inauspiciously rolling out his chair, and looking like a man ready to pounce had affected John. Because if attackers came through the door, all they would see was Sherlock, and John couldn't stand the thought of that. It was always better to share information of danger and work together. But that didn't mean the doctor wasn't greatly moved by Sherlock's gesture.

He clenched Sherlock's jacket and the expensive material didn't become coarse as he creased it in his hands. Sherlock had ducked his head downwards, probably to connect with John as the spoke. Every time Sherlock did that, consciously or not, he came so close to John and stared expectantly at him with intense eyes filled with silvery blue. And it never bothered John.

He loosened his grip a little, just so the jacket wouldn't make burn marks on the Sherlock's nape, and bravely stood his ground before the detective.

"Sherlock, I… you would do that for me?" he asked incredulously at the same time as he acknowledged to himself he would willingly put himself in front of the brilliant man if it came to that. Because Sherlock had been there for him in more ways than the sociopath presumably was aware of.

Sherlock inhaled and his chest expanded until his shirt brushed against John's thumbs. The white, silken fabric had remained damp after Sherlock's anxious display earlier in the other center. John was a doctor who had seen much, so human perspiration wasn't particularly disgusting in his eyes. But to know he had traces of Sherlock's sweat on his skin made him far from neutral and clinic about it.

Breathlessly, he bent the thumbs inwards and pressed down lightly on Sherlock's chest, feeling the hard and warm form and was suddenly reminded of his rather explicit fantasy in the bathroom. Sherlock's steady body offered protection, a possibility to lean against it, and comfort.

And so help him, John wanted it.

Wanted him.

A slow mumble broke the silence. "John, I said I was prepared to protect you. One cannot take back a promise, I've been told. No matter how we define our closeness and regardless if we are fighting or not, I will always be ready to keep you safe."

Sherlock then shifted his hips so he put more pressure on John's thumbs which were glued to the wet shirt. And in that moment, Sherlock struck him as the steadfast, solid man who could bear his weight, and Sherlock had verbally proclaimed that he was ready to be there for John, and let him lean against him whenever the world seemed too cruel and demanding.

So John wasn't taking anything from Sherlock, he understood now. On the contrary, Sherlock was voluntarily giving him this, whatever _this_ contained of. And John couldn't deny his own wishes; he wanted Sherlock Holmes.

As it all stood clear, John tugged Sherlock down, and oh how easily the detective bent his head and came closer with a burning gaze taking in John's face.

Just before Sherlock would catch his lips, John halted him and sensed Sherlock's breath tickle his chin. A small, complaining moan came from Sherlock which almost destroyed John's resolve but he regained control over his brain and whispered so no echoes would arise in the room, so that not even the walls, only Sherlock, would receive his words.

"Is this okay for you? Do you really want this?"

Sherlock parted his pink lips and distantly, John wondered if the red spots on his cheeks had been there all the time.

"Yes, John. Do it."

John had expected a snarky, dry retort from a sour detective. Not this tender, subdued, sure, and sincere reply as Sherlock swayed some inches in every direction so John's motionless thumbs stroked the firm chest. And John tilted his head and closed his eyes, not knowing what his feelings would be afterwards but certain that he wanted to at least take one step on this path.

First came warmth, as Sherlock drew near, and a shadow fell over John when the taller man loomed over him. Then something fluttered next to his lips and he helped, rocked forward and then his lower lip landed between Sherlock's barely parted lips. Two sharp inhales of surprise were heard and the glittering, sparkling tickles under the sensitive flesh made John shudder and feel hot at the same time.

Sherlock's lips moved around his, never breaking contact. He sucked John's lower lip deeper into the heat and intimacy and wetness of his mouth. John's hands abandoned the jacket and slid inside it, caressed Sherlock's sides and all of a sudden, the tip of Sherlock's rapid tongue flicked over John's lip. John's stomach lurched and he was grateful for his grip on Sherlock's waist because suddenly his knees all but buckled. It felt so good. And then John's hunger was awakened.

He retracted his embedded lip from the silken space between Sherlock's and covered those moving lips with his own. He pushed, gently but relentlessly, and brought a sigh from the man as their lips were pressed harder against each other. It wasn't a perfect kiss; as it was brought on by more eagerness than habit, but it was genuine nonetheless.

John wanted to say something, compliment Sherlock, encourage him to open that glorious mouth. All that came was a desperate groan before he coaxed Sherlock's lips open himself and soon had the detective closing and opening his mouth in harmony with John. No tongues were involved in this play but the staggering electricity was tangible anyway. John switched side and angled his head into Sherlock's other cheek and could tell that by the way both of them rubbed their noses and chins together, they would soon carry the other one's scent. And it was so comfortably warm and it felt just as natural as when John kissed a woman. Only this felt better; more right.

Sherlock had never been as pliant as he was in John's arms and the doctor found his hands had a life of their own because they were roaming the expanse of Sherlock sides, from the chest where he could trace the outlines of the ribs but also feel the quick heart beats, to the inward curves on Sherlock's waist where the firm muscles vibrated under John's touch.

"Sherlock," John mumbled against the keen mouth before long arms reached for his shoulders but minded the left one with the scar.

A wet sound nearly undid John when Sherlock spread his coated lips and replied with a husky voice, "This was…pleasant."

John studied the detective's appearance; shirt askew to the point of straining the buttons, erect nipples, pink skin and blood-filled lips. Sherlock Holmes looked ready to be shagged. John blinked and on a whim leaned towards Sherlock and nipped on his distinct jawline. It moved when Sherlock opened his mouth to gasp but John followed the line to the point beside the red ear and then dipped down to trace the delicate skin of the neck. Sherlock's whole body gave a quiver and the grip on John's shoulders tightened.

"Shh. Don't think, just feel," John breathed and couldn't believe how smooth the pale skin was. And in a display of trust, Sherlock hung his head, moaned, and left more room for John to devour the neck and give pleasure.

John knew this was getting out of hand but he was unable to be the one putting an end to this. A notion in his muffled brain suggested he move Sherlock to a wall so to easier keep both of them upright, and be able to kiss Sherlock some more.

Damp fingers dipped inside the neckline of his white t-shirt and brushed against the top of his chest; John could feel the chest hair move. Now it was he who gulped and sent out a loud noise since Sherlock's investigating fingertips at once made him feel bare in the middle of a CCTV center.

Losing himself in the world of increasing desire, John cradled the man to his chest and rolled his hips into the body. A familiar ache was developing deep inside his abdomen and when he found Sherlock seemed to be ahead, with a warm bulge in the black trousers, John buried his nose in the impossible curls and opened his eyes.

The first thing his drowsy eyes saw was a reflection of them embraced in one of the screens. But then he froze and in alarm separated himself from Sherlock by pushing away the narrow hips.

"John?" a perplexed Sherlock asked and John looked at him with a pained expression. "No, don't you dare say anything against this again! I wanted this," Sherlock muttered and there was fear in the grey eyes. John hurried to chase away that temporary insecurity, and was glad both their minds were sobering up after the snog because they needed them right now.

"It's not that. Sherlock, that was…amazing. But just, look behind you." Sherlock frowned and turned around. A second later, an excited hand tugged on the sleeve of John's blue jumper and a feverish Sherlock stumbled closer to the desk, and dragged John with him. The videos had kept rolling during the kiss and one screen was very interesting at the moment.

"I was right, wasn't I? That's him; the _gangster_ ," John muttered grimly as they observed in black and white how the enormous, muscular man who hid his face under a hood put one sure, clad in a hiking boot, foot in front of the other when he determinedly marched up to the counter in a costume shop, and quite rudely dropped a gorilla mask on the surface.

A sickening sensation filled John when he remembered that this thug had threatened Samir's family several times and forced the poor man to put rat poison in John's food at gunpoint. This had to be that gangster since he fitted into the description perfectly.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had snatched John's notepad and was viciously writing down something on the paper. Still, John was impressed that the detective had managed to collect himself so quickly after the heated activity.

"Finally something groundbreaking! I can deduce him! Let's see; the name of the shop, time and date, first impressions of him," Sherlock rambled and next, he stopped the video and dug a hand into his coat pocket. John stepped nearer and squinted as he took in whatever was visible of the man's face. A crooked nose poked out and there was dark stubble on the chin, whether the colour of it was black or brown.

During John's scrutiny, Sherlock held up something small and practically climbed onto the table and his head disappeared behind one of the machines.

"What are you doing?" John asked suspiciously and determinedly avoided staring at the round shape of Sherlock's backside as the detective worked.

"Borrowing the video. People rarely remember there are ports on the back of computers. I will save a copy of the file on my flash drive so I can analyze the man closer when he mutters something before he gets the vendor's attention. I don't believe it's English but in order to read the lips, I need to zoom in on him."

Sherlock reemerged empty-handed, plopped down on one chair beside John, and immediately started to tamper with the computer. "What happens now? Mycroft should be informed of this," John began when Sherlock whipped his head around and raised the eyebrows at him.

"If Mycroft claimed the information on Mr. Stewart, I claim this one for us. Only for a while so he will feel left out. Of course I'm going to share this with him eventually; I'm not childish."

John stifled his objection and gestured at the alert detective with a wave of his hand. "Fine. So I guess we're heading home now that we've found him. And Sherlock, we should talk about what just happened between us."

Sherlock defiantly lifted his chin and without intending to do so, John viewed the exposed neck and the red marks he had left there. He gingerly lifted his palm to his own mouth and dragged it across the lips to examine the state of them. They were warm and tingled from Sherlock's assault on them.

A daring statement left Sherlock. "No time for it now; I must think. Wait until we are home." Then a hushed word followed, "Please."

John held Sherlock's gaze for a burning moment and then nodded. Sherlock was actually showing him respect and consideration. The doctor went to his chair to get his jacket and things but before he had time to zip it, Sherlock grabbed his hand and wove his nimble digits through John's. John altered his stance and lowered his shoulders considerably as a distressed sigh escaped him.

"It was not wrong, John. We feel attracted to each other. And the kiss was far from boring, I assure you. But there is much to be said about the new nature of our relationship and I ask of you to let me have a couple of hours to work on the case. Then we will talk."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over John's features, too, and lingered at his lips before meeting John's brown ones. John caressed a knuckle with his thumb and could only comply. He had known Sherlock long enough to recognize when the consulting detective needed to work.

"I understand. Come on," he said softly and disentangled their joined fingers so Sherlock could stand up and dive behind the computer for the flash drive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Sherlock and John have finally crossed that bridge. How so we feel about that? A few kudos and comments would make my day... ;)


	19. The understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock discusses their kiss while Mycroft is onto them for venturing outside the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a COVER for the story, made by the fantastic manager of the Facebook page "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes/Moriarty Is Real". The picture is exactly what I had in mind when I began writing "Sometimes it's simply an accident".  
> you can find it here: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=377569888947222&set=a.376937602343784.77836.305311476173064&type=3&theater Seriously, check it out; it's very dramatic.

John would have lied if he said it wasn't a strange feeling in the flat that afternoon.

As he had promised, he had left Sherlock alone to work with the CCTV footage of the gangster but the silence that followed did little to stop his mind from returning to the moment when he seized Sherlock by the jacket and they kissed. It was different from any other kiss he had ever received. Yes, tentative and clumsy at first, but then the change had come and John had turned passionate, intense, and desperately _wanting_ like he never had before.

John stood in the kitchen and held a cup of tea in his hand but never raised it to his lips. The lips that yet tingled from Sherlock's eager response.

He heard rapid fingers tap on a keyboard and fondness washed over him until he shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor pensively. Relationships had never appeared complicated to him, mainly because all his romantic involvements had ended before advanced feelings had developed on his part. But now John was clueless, worried, and unsure. Because he wanted this, whatever this was, to work with Sherlock.

For once John was selfish; for once he wished for happiness for himself and couldn't bear the thought of going back to being Sherlock's flatmate, assistant, and friend. John wanted to be so much more to Sherlock and even if the detective in the heated room had professed his want for a kiss, John had no idea how experienced Sherlock was when it came to relationships.

John took a small sip from his cooling tea before emptying the cup in the sink and abandoning it. He rubbed a hand over his face, surprised that Sherlock's scent still lingered on his palm.

Then there was the fact that he was bisexual at least, if not gay all the way. Sure he had been able to get it up when he had slept with women but was it still so? And to like blokes, eye them in pubs and feel them up, getting felt up…

John helplessly cringed, not because he was disturbed by homosexuals per se. Christ, what kind of hypocrite would that make him in that case, not to mention his sister was…

'Harry! Oh God, what will I say?' he thought and shuffled his foot.

No, whenever John Watson had seen two men holding hands, walking with arms around each others waists, sharing a kiss, he hadn't seen gays. He had just with neutral eyes observed two people in love. So in the middle of his identity evolution, John never felt distaste for being gay.

It was the very notion of him engaging in intimate activities with men other than Sherlock that made him lost his appetite.

Suddenly John desperately needed to talk to Sherlock, damn the case. He squared his shoulders and went towards the living room. A grumbling detective sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the white sofa of all places didn't meet his eyes as he approached him. Instead, Sherlock furiously wrote on the laptop and if John didn't have better things to discuss, he would have warned Sherlock about his crouched position which would make his back hurt soon.

"How are things coming on?"

Sherlock hissed in a displeased manner and raised his head to the doctor. "I've zoomed in on him and managed to make the image clearer. It's his hood and beard that prevents me from fully seeing the movements of his lips. I'm trying to reduce the shadows," Sherlock replied with a scowl marring his striking features and John put his hands in his pockets, staving off awkwardness.

"What did the deduction give you?" he asked and an agile eyebrow lifted the trouble from Sherlock's forehead.

"Other than his measurements and what Mycroft told us: scars on the knuckles on the hand that holds the mask, probably from hand-to-hand combats of some sort. Also, it was far too easy to notice how he is favouring his right leg whenever he stands still. He's not limping but his left knee hurts sometimes."

As Sherlock talked, John discovered the red shadow below Sherlock's jaw and his heart beat harder, as if his mark on Sherlock turned him on. Sherlock went on.

"But that's not why you are here, John. I would have told you this eventually. You are here to talk about our kiss."

"Um, yes, actually. Since you've got time, apparently," John began haltingly before taking a deep breath and starting over. All the while, Sherlock remained on the floor with collected dignity and had all his attention fixed on him.

"Just wanted to hear your opinion of our relationship now. God knows I fell pretty fractured at the moment, dealing with my…sexual orientation, a personal vendetta, and figuring out how I can make this work between us. Can't imagine what you're experiencing and that's the point, Sherlock. If I'm dating someone I need certain things."

John scratched his neck and started to march back and forth before his flatmate and the computer.

"Relationships are about compromising, giving up certain aspects of your life for the sake of the other but it's usually worth it. I consider myself hopeless at it when it comes to my previous girlfriends but on the other hand I've always been ready to follow and adjust when you beckon. Are you prepared to do the same for me, Sherlock? Go to restaurants, not only after solved cases, and talk about things people like me like to talk about? To tell me _anytime_ you leave where you're going so I don't worry and can't find you? To not do too hazardous experiments or provoke armed criminals or take unnecessarily dangerous risks? Not that I want to suffocate you or force you to change who you are, because it's that daring, brilliant man I…came to like. But I'm not keen on losing you to insane ideas. Especially without knowing a part of you."

Sherlock straightened his back and put his hands on his hips but his face remained enigmatic. John admitted, "Please don't feel like you have to protect yourself from me, unless you really want to, of course. Tell me how you feel about stuff, share your feelings with me. I want honesty over fear of hurting my feelings."

Wow, John felt more deep and sincere than he had ever been with a girl. But then again, Sherlock was a special person. The person in question tilted his head and several curls bobbed with classy elegance.

"Concerning our relationship; I enjoyed kissing you so I hope we can do that again. As for the rest, it's all new to me but I trust I can learn. Only one thing," he said surely and nodded at John. "You have a responsibility as well to stay alive and well."

John stumbled on the reply he had formed in his mouth and instead sank down to sit on his haunches before the detective.

"But how are you right now, Sherlock?" he wondered gently and watched him begin to tap the fingers against the kneecaps.

"Absolutely fine. Though, the change in my chemistry is quite strange but natural and inescapable. Testosterone hormone, oxytocin; they all make me feel…good."

Ice-blue eyes searched John's face and then the moment was gone and Sherlock shifted. Back to business, then. As Sherlock bent towards the laptop and John got up, something started to vibrate in his jeans pocket, near a very responsive part. John jumped and quickly retrieved his phone.

"I won't bother with Sherlock more times today but I still demand answers so you will have to give them to me."

Mycroft sounded exasperated and slightly nasal like he was pinching his nose. Of course Sherlock recognized the voice and peeked up so John chose to stay in the room.

"Afternoon, Mycroft. What can I do for you?" John said tentatively.

"I'll have you know I could get into trouble for the stunt you pulled. Having my own brother misuse _my_ name to access sensitive material! Of course it's too much to ask of you, John, to stop him from these outrageous ideas!"

"Now look here," John grumbled unceremoniously and frowned, "it was all we could do to make _some_ progress on the case. We needed data and we got it, no harm done."

"Neither of you have the authority to enter CCTV centers. You could at least have had the courtesy to ask my permission first, not to mention let the man I'm paying to look after you actually _look after you_!"

Sherlock must have heard Mycroft's livid voice for suddenly he was up on two steady legs and loomed over John to eavesdrop. John sighed and was glad Mycroft couldn't see the flush he felt creeping up his face upon Sherlock's intoxicating presence.

"Okay, okay, we're sorry, alright! But we couldn't stay at home doing nothing; not when _you_ won't give us news."

A dramatic pause, then, "We had to let Mrs. Stewart go. She has nothing to do with this. And Mr. Stewart is sober now. He is demanding a lawyer. We've found nothing illegal in his computer nor in his history apart from buying a weapon and all the crimes he committed last night. Depression, anarchism, and drunkenness are not illegal. We will charge him but either he's somehow hiding information from us or he isn't the man who hunts you, Dr. Watson."

A hiss escaped Sherlock whereas John slumped against the back of the sofa, his voice going hoarse. "What do you mean? He hates me so much he remembers my name! He wants revenge! There must be… His hands can carry gasoline, the AK74m he had is probably from the Balkans. Maybe…maybe he's planned it and hired a criminal league from there."

He was grasping at straws, and felt as he was slowly losing his balance but John began to look past the initial chock. A cool hand wrapped around his hanging wrist just as the collected politician gave a cough. "I have assigned the best of my people to delve further into Mr. Stewart's life. I only wanted to inform you of what we might have to prepare for."

"We found Samir's gangster," John rushed out and glanced up at Sherlock. The man looked tense and grim, so different from only minutes ago. "We saw him buying the mask in a shop. Sherlock's deducing him now. Anything new about that angle of the case?"

He didn't care for the desperate tone he had. After all that had happened, John wouldn't dismiss the whole case because of one possible backlash.

"I expect a report by midnight on his observations. And before any of you two protest, yes by the way I know Sherlock is there; I hear him breathing next to you, I will share my news with you in return. Apart from knowing the basic characteristics of the man who threatened Mr. Ghaddar, we know nothing. It seems panic may confuse and disturb some people's memories. We overestimated Mr. Ghaddar's ability to determine accents because he hasn't recognized a single example we have played for him."

Mycroft sounded displeased and that combined with the depressing news had fury ignite John's fuse. "Bollocks, Mycroft!"

Sherlock removed his hand from John, cautious, but remained by his side as John went into bashing mode.

"I bet you lot scared away the remnants of his memories with your interrogation methods! He's just a man whose family was threatened and he had a gun pointed at his face several times as he was forced to poison his friend! Samir was fucking right to be terrified so don't you dare condemn him for being human! I don't know if you're aware, but it's bloody hard to concentrate on accents and shit when someone is pointing a gun at you! I for one know, you know, the big war and…"

"John," Sherlock interrupted and John fell silent apart from breathing hard and the hand that clutched the phone trembled. A thin finger tenderly wound itself around John's little finger, comfortingly and oh was Sherlock already good at relationships and knowing exactly how to handle the ex-soldier.

Mycroft used a subdued but formal tone now.

"I meant no offense, only presenting the current facts. It seems we have to rely on Sherlock's skills and my agents to discover more. Mr. Ghaddar will be let alone now. I will take care of the disturbance concerning the CCTV centers. Have a good day."

Instead of saying bye, John huffed dispassionately and hung up. He then found himself leaning into the back of the sofa and wove his fingers into Sherlock's unmoving ones.

"Sorry for getting upset," he confessed with shame but a tug at his trapped hand made him look into Sherlock's burning stare.

"Surely you are joking, John. Why would I want you to apologize to me for putting Mycroft in his place?" a dry drawl came from the smirking man. John exhaled and let his defensive shoulders down before grinning back. Then, on a whim as if nature itself urged him to, he stood straight and lifted his face to give Sherlock a hasty but warm peck.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock stood perplexed with pink roses blossoming on his cheeks.

"John, I feel something."

John raised his brows. "Oh?"

The detective nodded slowly and licked his lips before continuing. "I feel hungry. Will you prepare some dinner, please, since I'm busy looking at the footage?"

Okay, so maybe the man still needed a few lessons in appropriate responses to a kiss, but John couldn't deny he thought Sherlock utterly adorable and fantastic in that moment. "Yes, Sherlock," he smiled.

***

The next morning, hours before the crack of a wintery dawn, Sherlock woke up with his duvet bunched at his feet instead of being tightly secured around his slim frame. He recognized the effects John already had on him by starting a relationship.

Before the very much deliberate kisses yesterday, Sherlock had always wrapped himself in blankets and duvets every night, as a way of reducing the levels of the stress hormone cortisol which otherwise would trouble him since he rarely was touched by people in an intimate way. Every human needed closeness and embraces but blankets were an acceptable substitute for Sherlock. It was a natural urge Sherlock wouldn't bother try to tame, particularly because it made him feel good and functional.

Now on the other hand, he had John so his body had responded to the suddenly superfluous cover. Sherlock smirked and sat up on the side of the bed, wincing slightly as his bare feet made contact with the cold floor. It had been a long time since he had felt this great, with a dinner warming his system, an invigorating sleep, and knowing he finally had John's affections.

Of course he had understood that John had made it clear the afternoon yesterday that he expected both of them to work on the relationship like normal people did but Sherlock was confident he could master the role as a, well, boyfriend.

Sherlock stretched his neck and a pulse shot through him as the side of it throbbed lightly. The side where John had left a mark Sherlock had discovered with a small shock when he had brushed his teeth in the evening.

A relationship was new to Sherlock, but instead of discarding his feelings as dull and low, Sherlock found himself thrilled and excited, like when he borrowed Lestrade's police ID for the first time. A new world lay open in front of him, ready to be explored and it helped somewhat that John evidently wasn't that experienced, at least when it came to close relationships with men. And in contrast to other males, John fascinated Sherlock to no end and made him interested in not keeping a distance from sex.

Suddenly Sherlock thought he had used enough time pondering upon his current situation, and began to rise and prepare for the day. A while later, he entered the kitchen, dressed in a suit and eager to see John and continue the work. The doctor looked up from his toast and grinned widely, whereas Sherlock pretended to be unaffected and reached for his cup of coffee on the table.

"Slept well?" John wondered and gave him a certain _look_ that made Sherlock suspect he should be blushing.

"Yes, John. I would ask you the same, but the smooth skin between your brows, your straight back and the faint lines on your left cheek from the pillow rather gave you away."

"Ugh, too early in the morning for deductions," John groaned but there was amusement in his eyes. Sherlock took a seat and drank his coffee.

"What's on the agenda today?" John asked as Sherlock moved the unread newspapers towards him.

"I'm afraid I will have to look at instructions on how to read lips, and the basic lip movements in different language families before I _surrender_ the video to Mycroft."

"You mean you _didn't_ put down the information about which costume shop it is and the time for the gangster in your report last night?"

"Certainly not. When Mycroft is so quiet, I'll be the same."

"Sherlock," John reproached, "we need every help we can get to solve this, and preferably bind Miles Stewart to it."

"Says the man who yelled and cursed at my brother for his rudeness," Sherlock pointed out with an eloquently raised eyebrow and John actually had the audacity to look a bit remorseful.

"You don't think he's punishing us with silence because of me?"

Sherlock frowned and rustled the pages in his hand. "Mycroft is merely moping; possibly comfort eating, but as soon as he discovers something new he'll contact…" Sherlock trailed off and took in the large black letters with a stunned expression.

"What?"

The detective scanned the page for a moment before tossing it over to John and quickly finding his phone to check the pages of every large British newspaper. Each headline flashed before his eyes while he listened to John's incredulous exclamation.

" _Gunfight in Wild Wild Wales_. But how could they possibly know…"

_Distinguished War Hero visited by Police in the Night_.

_War Veteran vs. Aggressive Police: one wounded_.

… _Detective Inspector Lestrade who lead the operation was wounded when the panicked man opened fire…_

_Ex-wife of War Hero claims the Police was too Brutal._

… _according to reliable sources, a London DI was shot after he had drawn his weapon and pointed it at the man_ …

With trembling fingers and his pulse increasing, Sherlock put down the phone in his pocket and was up from the chair within a second. As he stalked towards the living room he heard John scramble up and follow behind him. With sharp eyes and his jaw set, Sherlock turned on the television and crossed his arms.

Oh, God. It was all over the news programs; discussions on the Yard's methods, false facts like that the police forces had turned up outside Stewart's in the middle of the night and opened fire first, interviews with psychologists, soldiers, and Welch villagers who all disapproved of the police's action, and worst of all; a young reporter in warm clothes who stood outside the Nevill Hall Hospital in Abergavenny and informed the viewers in which section the injured police was supposed to be.

A heavy sigh startled Sherlock and he wrenched his eyes from the screen to see John standing still and looking angry.

"I guess that's why we haven't heard from Mycroft. He's busy over there," John commented and then turned his brown eyes to Sherlock. Sherlock contemplated calling Mycroft to demand why this had become public when his phone buzzed. This time, Sherlock knew the number.

"Why are you still in the hospital and using their phone? Shouldn't Mycroft's agents have gotten you out by now?" Sherlock hissed but was met with a tired and raspy protest.

"Figured you would have noticed the news by now. The agents have got it all under control, or so they've told me. I can't leave the bed to look out the window but the nurse told me the press vans are arriving. It's quite a spectacle."

"Stop joking, Detective Inspector, and answer my questions! Have the agents left you? Are you all alone in your room? Why haven't you been transferred to a secret place yet? It's only a matter of time before a journalist slips past the doors and finds you. You're not _safe_!"

"Calm down! I haven't gotten my morphine and I'm really not in the mood for your tone. I can't _move_ on my own, Sherlock, 'cause there's a bloody hole in my belly! The agents said they're arranging something so they can get me out of here without discovery but I'll stay put until then. Really, Sherlock, you ought to have more trust for the men who work for the government."

Sherlock snorted and replied sarcastically, "You're telling me to trust those who might have leaked the information about you! Did it even occur to you that someone among them could have ulterior motives? Mycroft told me the night you were shot he would prevent this incident from getting to the news media but here we are with practically a lynch mob against you. Few knew what happened so that means someone leaked."

The other man didn't reply and when a picture of medals were shown and explained on the television, John promptly turned it off but remained there supervising him, which kind of felt comforting. Lestrade huffed, "Actually, everything indicates it was one of the Welsh cops who leaked. I told you they didn't like me. And now I'm more popular than I was that time in year 9 when I got one of the toddlers off the school's roof, though the papers aren't as kind now."

Sherlock put him on the speaker so John could participate, too.

"This is a matter of life and death! If Stewart indeed is involved in something bigger, he and others now know your name and location," Sherlock said impatiently and John drew closer and added, "We're just worried. Do you want us to come to Wales?"

Sherlock stared at the unassuming man who simply shrugged at him, as if to say he didn't give a damn about Mycroft's orders to stay in London if Sherlock wanted to go. Affected by the gesture, Sherlock stepped up to his side and pressed his elbow into John's arm.

"No! I'm sorry but I don't need you two getting into this mess, as well. I guess my superiors will breathe down my neck in a few hours so I've got my plate full as it is," Lestrade emphasized before he muttered, "Besides, the guys at the Yard have already called me to see how I am. They're arranging a press conference later to calm the reporters but the difficult thing is that the media always wants a scapegoat who gets the whole blame when the police blunders. I can't afford to keep being one so Sally will have to find a solution fast."

"Feed them Anderson," Sherlock uttered and the room was at once filled with chuckles from the DI.

"Well, I suppose if there's anyone who can bear the brunt of this, it's him," Lestrade joked whereas Sherlock had been completely serious. John interrupted before he had a chance to argue for his point.

"So you'll be fine, mate? I mean, those headlines were pretty nasty."

A labored breath sounded from the injured man. "Yes. I'm leaving soon to recover somewhere else, I've been promised some painkillers, and Stewart is still in custody. But there's one thing I need to ask Sherlock."

Immediately, the detective stiffened and replied with earnest, "I'm listening."

"Where are my grapes?"

Sherlock frowned in confusion but then he heard a muffled laugh from John and Lestrade sniggered. Ah, so he had been made the butt of a joke, but he knew neither of them meant any harm so he could let it slip without revenge.

"Come on, John. We have much to accomplish as it is already," he reminded and nudged John's side in an indicating manner.

"Okay, fine. Hey listen, Lestrade; if there's anything at all, feel free to call us," he told the man before they all said goodbye. John studied him searchingly as Sherlock went to turn on the laptop.

"Are you okay?" John asked at length when Sherlock had plopped down on the chair by the desk and pulled up his long legs so he could rest his chin on the knees.

"Wouldn't I have told you if I wasn't, according to our newly established rules?" he remarked and internally made a vow that today he would at least figure out which language the gangster spoke, preferably distinguish some of the words the man muttered to himself in the shop. When John unexpectedly didn't answer, Sherlock caught up with himself and rotated the seat so he could see the doctor.

Anxiously, John clenched his fists and his gaze strayed restlessly, never stopping at one point for long.

"I am alright, John. Do you want me to ask you the same thing?" the rather clueless consulting detective proposed gently and cocked his head to the side.

"It's…Christ, this is strange," John began, now fiddling with the hem of his jumper. "It's not _rules_ you can't break, Sherlock. You have a saying in this, too, and you're not obligated to only do what I want. From what I've observed, and I know I probably missed a whole bunch of important details, not much has changed between us. We're doing what we always do, but with more intimacy thrown into the mix. But I'm getting more concerned for you, because it feels like I have a responsibility to make sure you're okay. You can say something if my attention is bothering you."

At the end, John had come closer and glanced down at him occasionally, while Sherlock inhaled John's cozy scent and wanted John's large but nimble hands on his face. This _hunger_ for physical contact consumed him little by little but Sherlock didn't see it as a weakness, yet anyway.

"I like the attention. I only stated the obvious; I am fine or else I would have informed you."

"You worried awfully much about Lestrade just now, and two nights ago you were a wreck when we got the news about the shooting. I'm here, ready to listen or something if you need me, "John revealed silently and made Sherlock's skin prickle from the silken veil of utter privacy the doctor cast over them only by using his voice.

"Lestrade is in good spirits right now. I only want to work," Sherlock stated with a slack jaw and spotted a glint in the two brown wells above him.

"So work then."

A whisper which sounded too insinuating for the faint daylight which came through the windows. Sherlock's tongue was cotton and toffee, his need sky-rocketing.

"John," he mumbled and then decided he had waited enough. His hand shot out and slid around John's nape to bring him down some inches. Sherlock bent his head back and adorned John's lips, which were sweetened by jam, with a languid sweeping of his tongue before pushing his lips greedily, urgently against John's. It was _he_ who let out the muffled moan but _John_ who cupped his face and turned the kisses lighter and softer until he nibbled on the corner of Sherlock's mouth before leaving it all together.

Both men were panting and warmth along with chemicals made Sherlock's mind hazy and his body focused on something entirely different than working with the case.

"We'll take it slowly for a while, if you don't mind. We're both…unused to this. I must do the shopping," John breathed and then sent Sherlock a caressing glance before he turned and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. With a heating face and a stiff section at the juncture of his legs, Sherlock reluctantly returned to the laptop.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, I couldn't write this chapter without adding kisses between the two lovebirds. Hope you don't mind, ha ha. And for those who are interested in the effects of high and low cortisol levels, I recommend these links: http:/whyfiles.org/087mother/4.html http:/en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cortisol#Factors_generally_reducing_cortisol_levels


	20. The development

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't want to sleep, and John ups the intimacy.

Sherlock didn't want to sleep. His mind was reeling too much, his body too restless.

As he walked the length of his room over and over, gesticulating his arms while he tried to find a way through the riddle, he refused to call himself giddy.

Yes, his physical chemistry implied he was happy and less stressed. Yes, he was filled with energy after the meal John had cooked. But all in all, he wasn't _giddy_.

_Per se_.

He was more able than most people to suppress his feelings and the whims of his body. The fact that he earlier this day had received and given rather heated kisses was irrelevant to the bubbling sensation in his chest. Sherlock was convinced his state of mind was caused by his discovery concerning the case.

He had seen something in the CCTV footage but was now compelled to unravel more so he could make something coherent of it.

He was so busy swirling his black, flimsy dressing gown which covered his pajamas, composing compasses in the air for the labyrinth in his brain, and dancing back and forth in the limited space faster and faster that he didn't perceive anything else until he made a quick turn around the ancient four-poster bed and faced the open door and John.

His heart had time to do one somersault before Sherlock collected himself and dropped his arms. His eyes raked over the doctor's form and his usual night attire consisting of a white t-shirt and probably shorts since his bare ankles showed below the hem of the fluffy bathrobe.

Strangely enough, considering the rather casual appearance, John gave him a short, formal nod and squared his shoulders.

"Hey."

Sherlock frowned cautiously; both disconcerted and delighted by the intensifying buzz in his core, and repeated slowly, "Hey?"

John put his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe, under the belt and at once looked harmless and familiar which calmed Sherlock a bit. But he could still not deduce an answer to why John was in his room without being led there by him.

"Yes?" Sherlock uttered and he noticed the edge of his voice had turned deeper and softer on its own accord. Peculiar.

John shrugged, which for a moment left his shins bared, and smiled. "You took off quickly after dinner. Did you find anything on the video?"

"The man said the letters E, T and A in a row without break for air. But the language is hard to identify by only two syllables. I'm not even sure those letters form a word of their own or if they are part of a word which could have letters missing before or after them."

As was his habit, John wrinkled his forehead in concentration and immediately tried to help. "Okay, let's see. E, T, A. In English there's meta, beta, feta cheese, though that would probably mean he's using code words while talking to himself, or perhaps he's Greek? Then there's, just from the top of my head, names, places, maybe a word that ends with a stressed E and then something that begins with ta."

"But Samir claimed the man had an accent which suggests English isn't his first language. I've been testing the three letters on the French, Spanish, Romanian, German, Norwegian and Turkish languages so far. Many hits; need to sort out the most probable ones," Sherlock retorted with a hint of annoyance at his failure so far.

John widened his eyes before he said, "It shouldn't surprise me that you know that many languages but still… wow."

Sherlock smirked until he caught look of the wristwatch on his night table. It was late.

As usual, John followed his eyes.

"It's been an eventful day, the doctor stated neutrally, and as Sherlock thought back on certain details from the day, the back of his neck began to burn.

"Certainly," he replied stiffly and quirked an eyebrow at John who didn't seem to be on his way.

"Don't occupy your mind with this business more tonight. It would be better if you can sleep," John murmured when he closed the door behind him and took one step further into the room. Anticipation flooded Sherlock's veins but he could not foresee John's intentions. He snorted.

"It's not that I can't sleep. I just don't _care_ for sleep right now."

"Whatever you say," John mumbled with a smile and then held out his palms by his sides. "I have to tell everyone I like men…you."

Sherlock stood silent but searched John's face for signs of distress. "When do you have to do that?"

"When it's time, I guess. Can't be a secret forever but I still want more time for…us to begin something."

"Forever?" Sherlock wondered with a curious expression. "Is that what you think of in terms of time for our relationship, John?"

"Shut up," the doctor said, though a smile that made Sherlock weak in the knees grazed his full lips. Then John turned serious and looked at the wardrobe. "I don't want to sleep alone."

Sherlock cocked his head, waiting for him to continue eventually. John sighed before explaining.

"It's not nightmares or fear. I just…want to ease into this with you. Add to the proximity; get used to being close to you."

John slowly raised a foot and kicked one of the bed's legs like someone who who tested the quality of a tire. Sherlock realized and narrowed his eyes.

"You want to sleep in my bed, beside me." It wasn't a question. And suddenly it sank in that they were alone in this flat, without Mrs. Hudson visiting now and then and Mycroft's harmless cameras which had existed at 221B. He and John were alone, in true privacy.

The thought of it was exhilarating. And Sherlock was in wonder, and somewhat clueless. It was John who had come to him.

As he stared mutely, John tore his solemn eyes from him and turned around before sitting down on the bed's farthest side. Then he untied his bathrobe and shrugged it off his broad shoulders with surprising grace before letting it slip down to his waist.

Sherlock couldn't swallow for the parched sensation in his mouth upon seeing the strangely erotic motion that reminded him of that day when he had stumbled upon a half-naked John who studied his back for scars. The white t-shirt was clinging to the steady form and revealed the outlines of John's back muscles and the captivating curve on his lower back. He could see John's biceps bulge when the man bunched up the bathrobe and placed it on the night table on his side.

At once, the sight of John's movements was arousing Sherlock so much that warmth practically pooled in his abdomen and he felt that odd pressure on his chest. With sudden alarm, he understood he was slowly becoming erect again so he moved to the bed and practically dove under the duvet to hide the growing hardness.

He managed to remove his dressing gown and dropped it on the floor, too busy handling the new development to care about his garment. He put his arms above the cover and lay flat on his back while watching John climb into bed too, and adjust his pillow before turning towards Sherlock.

The detective opened his mouth several times but stopped his words because they didn't seem to fit. At length, he spoke in a flustered voice. "I thought you wanted to take things slow."

John chuckled beside him which disarmed some of the tension for Sherlock.

"Yeah, it looks like I'm a real hypocrite, doesn't it? But I'll be a gentleman tonight."

"My virtue is safe," Sherlock muttered back. He heard John lift his head and rest it on his hand and the perfume of tea and home washed over the detective. Intrigued by John's changed position, Sherlock let his head fall to the side.

John was carrying a wary expression but his close presence wasn't frightening. John hesitated, clearly weighting his words before he mumbled, "Have you never shared a bed with anyone? I mean, not evenlike with Mycroft?"

Sherlock swallowed and became aware of that he had curled his hands into tight fists during the quiet conversation in his bed. He relaxed them and summoned some control and courage to dismiss the anxiety. One thing was good though; the mentioning of Mycroft had killed any lingering remnant of arousal.

Suddenly Sherlock decided to be honest with John because he trusted him.

"No. As for my childhood, there were too many years apart, I suppose. Mycroft read books for me occasionally but he never stayed with me until morning. And I never had a sleepover with friends."

A glance at John told him he wasn't being judged and that meant everything. To say the least, Sherlock was a bit self-conscious now. He had no knowledge of which rules applied to this situation. Now that he has John in his bed, should he turn his back to him or should he face the man and reveal himself, have his face on display for the doctor to read?

The concept of sex and sharing beds was new to him. Sherlock liked novelty. That was one reason to why he mostly only took the real challenges when cases were offered to him. He found that it would be _interesting_ to further investigate the mystery around sex. But he wasn't sure if this was the night.

"Hey, what are you thinking about?" came a kind inquiry from the side and Sherlock turned his eyes to John's peaceful brown ones. "Want me to leave?"

"No. It's fine," Sherlock replied whereas John frowned at him and pretended to be harsh as he said, "Not over-analyzing the letters when you're about to sleep?"

"No, there's something else on my mind."

"Yes?" John said breathlessly which made Sherlock feel a tingle down there once more before he cleared his throat.

"Well, there's a celebrated holiday coming up that requires preparations in the shape of objects we do not have at our disposal for the time being."

John stared at him dubiously. "Christmas? You're not seriously suggesting I should buy Christmas decorations? It's late November! Sherlock, only lunatics and shops are decorating this early!"

Sherlock made a face at him but enjoyed the friendly banter. "Now, I wouldn't call myself a lunatic," John rolled his eyes but there was amusement playing on his face, "but I do sort of have a shop on my blog. Where I offer my services to people who want to buy those. Oh, stop grinning like that! It doesn't become you to be so occupied with finding sexual meanings everywhere."

John sobered up and dragged a hand through his blonde hair. "So you're actually proposing we take a break from the case and go out to shop decorations tomorrow?"

At that, Sherlock profoundly shook his head and thought he could taste bile. "We need new decorations since the old ones were lost in the fire. And you know perfectly well I have not made room for something as trivial as the art of Christmas decorations in my head. But you like decorations. You know better what suits a Christmas tree and where to put everything."

John wriggled his eyebrows. "Like not put sharp slides everywhere that no-one could see and that nearly cut my wrist when I was going to toss the tree out?"

"They captured the light from the fire place perfectly!" Sherlock objected and tapped his fingers on the cover in dismay.

"I get your point. But you're right; I guess I must be the one to buy decorations."

Smug that he had manipulated John into submission, Sherlock said, "So it's settled, then. I work tomorrow and you go out and find some new Christmas decorations. But make sure you have one of the bodyguards with you, if only to please Mycroft."

John nodded before he yawned. "I promise I won't ditch him, and I'll stay on the large streets where there are people."

"It's very late now," Sherlock remarked though he thought that was a stupid thing to say since they both knew the time. "I know," John mumbled and slid lower in the bed but kept peering at him.

"John."

"What?"

"Can I face you tonight?"

John blinked and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead. "Of course. Why did you feel you had to ask such a thing?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered earnestly and felt embarrassed until John suddenly moved his leg under the cover and nudged Sherlock's foot with his before retracting it.

"Sleep now, silly," John smiled and closed his eyes. A warm feeling settled in Sherlock's chest and he couldn't help but smile as he stretched to turn off the last lamp.

"Good night, John."

"Good night."

***

John turned to the side to settle better against the mattress and made a small, involuntary groan as he often did during those short seconds spent between being asleep and awake.

But as he came to, he realized he wasn't in his room. The air was different; it carried ghosts of spicy scents that were familiar and yet not.

He blinked his eyes open and despite the darkness in the room, some faint wintery light spilled through the sides of the curtains.

'Oh, right. Sherlock's room.'

At once aware of the sounds he made, John quieted down even though his pulse sped up. It had just been a notion last night to go to Sherlock, to be the one who took the next step. Even if he was nervous. Even if he knew he was pushing the limits between them, especially for the anti-social person, by asking for this not one day after their first honest kiss.

Even if he counted on getting rejected. That Sherlock had accepted him into his bed was unexpected but not unwelcome.

John rolled onto his back gently to not rouse the man who slept beside him. The flat was utterly quiet, the building itself not creaking. It felt wonderful as always to wake up beside someone he had feelings for, no matter how new this particular relationship was. In this moment, in peace and privacy behind closed doors, John wasn't alone. He wanted to belong to togetherness. And Sherlock was his chosen partner.

John sighed and looked up at the ceiling as Sherlock shifted before he calmed down again. John smiled gingerly. Not that he had studied Sherlock's sleeping habits that closely but he was quite certain the detective rarely slept until this hour unless he had finished a case.

Maybe his presence had something to do with it.

'Of course it does!' John thought, convinced that he had good influence on Sherlock when it came to healthy habits. He didn't consider the idea farfetched since he _had_ made Sherlock eat more often and tolerate him tending to the detective's occasional wounds.

John was about to grin, proud at himself, when his smile faded. He shouldn't pressure Sherlock if the man didn't want it. He didn't think it right to presume Sherlock would be as compliant more nights. John had asked for baby steps yesterday which Sherlock reluctantly had agreed to. He should back off a little, not push Sherlock into something he, or both of them for that matter, might not be ready for.

Last night, Sherlock had spoken of always sleeping alone in beds. But John knew better than assume things about the unique man. The revelation didn't have to mean Sherlock had never _slept_ with anyone.

On the other hand, the detective _could have_ hinted at exactly that.

The questions about that area that rose in John made him feel a nervous flutter in his stomach but also excitement. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled, and dismissed his inner monologue which he felt Sherlock should be a part of before he was causing himself to get a boner in Sherlock's bed. It was way too early for that.

To distract himself, he rocked onto his side smoothly and saw a nest of black curls and a rosy, relaxed face with a chin burrowed under the duvet and the shape of an arm which clutched the cover to the body. A cold fellow, then.

John couldn't help but slip into his doctor nature as he studied Sherlock. The man was at complete ease and the colour on his cheeks spoke of warmth.

Though, John frowned at the desperate way Sherlock was holding the thick cover. Was it a lingering habit born out of absolute need to stave off the cold even if the man in question clearly was warm now? Had Sherlock often been cold when he slept before he met John? Had he been so thin he ended up cold if he didn't have something thick covering the entire expanse of his body?

'Eating isn't transport. It makes you warm, idiot," John thought with worry before he swept his eyes over the expressionless face and noticed the other arm which lay next to Sherlock's head, palm up. Slender fingers were half bent but relaxed in the air.

Stealthily, John inched closer, driven by his curiosity. He had one opportunity to study a sleeping Sherlock in his bed and he didn't want to waste it. He wanted to memorize everything about this calm, delicate side of the detective.

People had often explained to John that his association, fascination, with Sherlock Holmes was mainly brought on by his need for a war and dangers in his life. So why then did John now feel as if Sherlock was _the one_ constant, protecting, caring, safe person in his life?

John bit his lip and questioned whether he should do it or not, the thing he wanted to try. He wasn't a specialist in children as such, but he had examined small children in the clinic. He couldn't resist.

Deftly, he held his breath and extended his hand without moving the duvet too much. His index finger reached Sherlock's visible hand and slipped inside the space between the palm and the nearly folded fingers. Slowly, with his body prepared to run if Sherlock's reaction turned out bad, he lowered the finger until it brushed along the pads of the palm.

At first nothing happened. John repeated the stroke, amazed how soft Sherlock's hand was considering the things he used it for. Three fingers, the little finger being the exception, twitched and then all four went down and hugged Johns' fingers lightly.

And just like what happened every time an infant performed the same reflex during an examination, a bright smile bloomed out on John's face. His theory had proven true; Sherlock, albeit an adult but different nonetheless, still had an infant reflex.

Eager to see if there were more remaining reflexes, John freed his finger from Sherlock's grip and peeled off the duvet so he left Sherlock's mouth bare. He was tempted for a second to touch the pink lips but decided that would be too creepy, and ignored the notion that experimenting with a sleeping friend already wasn't exactly good.

Instead, John moved the finger to a spot beside Sherlock's mouth and caressed the area. The contrast between alabaster skin and scratchy dusts of black hair, which John almost never saw because Sherlock was very meticulous with his shaving, was interesting.

A gasp escaped the detective before he moved his head towards the tickling finger and opened his mouth, searching. The similarities between Sherlock and a baby disappeared in John's mind upon the response. He only saw an open, hungry mouth, heard a tiny moan and had his finger inches from the man's wet tongue. It became too much.

John retreated, wriggled his entire body away for good measure but couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock's features. The man closed his mouth, moved his body under the duvet before drawing in a deep breath. John's gaze remained on him as Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered and finally went up.

They were both mute for a while until John got restless from being awake for so long, and let out, "You have stubble." Sherlock huffed.

"I am a man, John," he remarked.

"Oh. And here I thought all along I lived with an impatient child," John mocked, feigning shock.

Sherlock didn't even dignify him with a retort. He lifted the cover from his body and swung his legs over the bed's side before ruffling his tousled hair. John found himself transfixed watching Sherlock lift the curls and expose the smooth skin of his nape.

"John, I think you should leave."

The ice that suddenly filled John at the detective's words was horrible. But he had after all waited for a reaction like this from the self-proclaimed sociopath. Awkwardly still, he pulled up his knees and sat up, not daring to look at Sherlock's back.

"Yes, of course," he said glumly but as he spoke, Sherlock whipped his torso around so diagonal creases appeared all over the back of his pajamas.

"No," he blurted before hoisting his long legs onto the mattress and crawling over to John's side. "You misunderstood. No, that's not true. _I_ did not make myself clear. Forgive me. I do not yet grasp the whole concept of sharing a bed with someone, and the proper communication surrounding it."

John leaned his head to the side, waiting for him to finish. Urgent grey-blue eyes searched for his until he returned the glance.

"I was not dismissing you, John. It is my morning routine I'm about to begin and I'm not comfortable doing that while you are present. Yet."

John continued to sit silent until he settled for chuckling instead of getting annoyed with Sherlock for scaring him so.

"Sherlock, if you want privacy to change into clothes, you ought to just say so," he uttered with relief lacing his voice and got up from the bed, found his bathrobe on the night table, and picked it up to drape it around himself, his back turned to the other man.

"I know. But there's a lot I don't know," Sherlock confessed behind him and John turned serious while he secured the belt around his waist. Once more they had briefly touched the subject about Sherlock's experience but John remained unsure how much he did know practically.

"I understand. I'll keep that in mind the next time you speak about us so neither of us end up hurt," he promised and turned around. He had to tip his head down to see the detective who was perched on his legs on the probably still warm place where John had slept.

Sherlock's head was literally directly level with his _middle_. Below the waist. And his eyes stared straight forward. After a hasty weighing of his chances, the doctor was fairly certain the bathrobe did little to flatten his assets when only thin, tight-fitting shorts covered him behind the fluffy fabric.

And Sherlock's burning gaze stirred something in him that would soon manifest itself in an even bigger bulge. It made John hazy but also shy; afraid that if Sherlock awoke that something, it wouldn't be quenched unless it was taken care of, be it a cold shower or a coaxing touch.

"Sherlock," he mumbled and the fervent silver eyes shifted to meet his.

"Not appropriate?" Sherlock whispered. John wanted to sweep a hand through the black hair but feared Sherlock would think the gesture implied he was obligated to do something.

"No. Yes, Christ, I mean… At least not as long as you want to be alone while changing," John managed and took a determined step back, clearing his throat.

Sherlock fiddled with his sleeve, looking like he was struggling to regain his everyday formal demeanour.

"Breakfast?" John asked and received a nod. He smiled fleetingly at the man but before he left the bedroom he stated, "I slept well, Sherlock. Thank you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Facts about infant reflexes on Wikipedia, "Primitive reflexes". It's not that usual that those reflexes stay with adults but then again, this is a fiction and Sherlock is kind of special, so I think it fits. Lots of personal development here for both John and Sherlock. Next time I promise more action, funny situations, but also drama... I welcome comments.


	21. The incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hates the neighbours. John goes shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter filled with humor, action, and drama as promised. Enjoy.

It started when John finished his toast. Half an hour had passed since a child began to scream somewhere in the building, but it was Sherlock who had made John's patience wane.

"Shut up!" the detective yelled.

"Focus on something else! Deduce the child!" John exclaimed back when he left his own bedroom where he had changed to see Sherlock pacing back and forth in the corridor, still wearing his black dressing gown and no socks despite his talk earlier to change once John had left his room.

At once, Sherlock stiffened and jerked his head towards the front door in a would be hurting way. "Sixth floor. The Jones' family, the youngest or second to youngest daughter."

As it happened, a nerve-wracking scream, be it a problem or a help for Sherlock's deduction, transformed into wails that echoed through the stairwell and the noise easily penetrated the walls. John nervously awaited Sherlock's next move. The detective scowled and testily pressed his hands to his ears. John braced himself for the explosion he knew was inevitably coming.

"For God's sake! Can't think. John, go down and tell them to do whatever parents do to stop their offspring from crying!"

"It's probably the youngest. Could be something perfectly normal but still troublesome. Poor baby."

Sherlock threw him a dirty look but nodded towards the door even though his arms were still raised. " _Poor baby_? Poor anyone in the infernal house who has to endure this for hours!"

John tried to be enlightening and at the same time summoned some inner patience. "Sherlock, all infants cry sometimes. It will stop sooner or later."

" _I_ was never like this when I was a child."

"No, you were probably perfectly dignified and proper like you are now," John agreed with a grin. Sherlock made a disgusted noise and stomped off to blow off some steam on the balcony, and kept his ears covered in protest.

'It's probably for the best anyway,' John thought wearily and went to take a shower. Some hour later, the screams had stopped but Sherlock demonstratively kept sulking for good measure.

When John was bundling up for the shopping trip, Sherlock came marching through the hallway towards him, resembling a terrifying predator, or possibly a disgruntled peacock, judging by the way he was dramatically flaunting his black dressing gown. The tall man made a circle around John and although he muttered under his breath, he did fleetingly brush a hand over John's back. But John was too busy worrying what Sherlock might do towards their neighbours when he had gone to respond to the touch. Sherlock didn't really handle conflicts that well without insulting people to the point of lawsuit.

So John reached out and grabbed the flimsy fabric to halt the detective and then directed him by pointing with his whole hand at the bathroom, and gave him clear directions. "Go there. Shower. Feel better. Got it?"

Sherlock grimaced, happened to bump his hip into John's side, though the doctor strongly suspected it was on purpose. Then he stalked away and John followed the impressive shape displayed before him until said shape locked himself in the bathroom.

The sound of running water began. John refrained from wiping his forehead in relief and opened the door. He had taken one step over the threshold when he could swear he perceived a rumbling tone amidst the sounds the shower made. He grinned to himself.

He had expected this for a while but only now got proof; Sherlock used the rubber duck as a substitute for the sadly lost skull. But this was fine by John; the detective could use an inanimate object to vent his frustration on. John closed the door behind him and began descending the stairs, the hilt of his gun rubbing against his lower back. Everything would be fine and he started to hum a Christmas song to himself to get in the right mood.

***

Sherlock snorted and shook his head to get the dripping tendrils from his eyes. Oddly enough, he felt quite invigorated as he soaked himself under the lukewarm stream. Perhaps it was the full night's sleep with John by his side, or the outburst at the not intolerable baby. Either way, the detective found himself less tired and more expectant than he usually felt in the morning.

And it seemed like a good idea to let John get out of the house for a couple of hours so the doctor wouldn't get bored when all Sherlock did was working on the case. With his long fingers massaging soap onto his arms, Sherlock decidedly refused to believe it was _he_ who needed the time alone to be able to work at all.

Of course he was used of having John nearby but it wasn't like he had to be with the doctor all the time. God knew John was distracting him occasionally with the predictable behaviour of normal humans. Making sounds when he moved Sherlock's petri dishes in order to cook meals in the kitchen. Chatting with him about trivial things when he was in the middle of an important thought. Causing Sherlock to see and smell and hear him while the doctor was unaware of how much he affected his flatmate as he stood there in his big jumpers and broad shoulders…

Sherlock drew a deep breath, exhaled though the mouth, and shrugged off the stirring that had begun in his core. He looked down at the tap and saw his own contorted reflection in the smooth surface. His cheeks were far redder than they should be given the temperature of the water. He frowned and ducked his head under the sprinkling water. He really ought to show more control over his body but it was as if John was demolishing his resolve even as just a creation in Sherlock's mind.

Sherlock blamed the chemistry changes in his body but he couldn't help but wonder if it maybe was normal to feel this way when one was in love. Somehow it felt like he couldn't get enough of John and at the same time the desperate need scared Sherlock for he had never been subjected to anything like it, except for drugs and nicotine but those weren't emotional needs.

So maybe a few hours alone would be good for him. He had things to do. It should go well. The persistent tickles in his neither regions begged to differ. Sherlock bent his head and scowled at the swollen, wet length. He had no intention to take care of that only to end up sleepy and dirty again.

He filled his lungs with air and swept a hand hesitantly over his inner thigh just to find some relief to the insistent cries for stimulation his body made. A raspy moan surprised him and when Sherlock quickly pulled back his hand, the wrist accidentally made contact with the warm shaft which sent a flash of pure pleasure through him. Sherlock dimly realized he was thrusting stupidly against nothing and the pressure in his lower half had increased to a maddening level.

"No, don't. Don't, stupid," he whispered to himself to not imagine John standing in the shower naked and making those slick noises Sherlock had heard so often through thin walls. Or the probably golden hair hiding behind his fluffy dressing gown when Sherlock had been opposite John's crotch this morning in the bed.

Sherlock ground his teeth and leant the side of his head against the black bricks. In some calm minutes, he was less aroused and turned off the shower.

As he dried himself, he barked at the yellow PVC-duck on the sink.

"I'm not afraid! It's just messy business I find no reason to engage in when I need to be productive. Just like you don't particularly enjoy spending time in a microwave."

John had yelled at Sherlock for trying to melt down the duck without ruining the apparatus. The duck was fine, except for the smudged bottom.

"I actually did some things at the university. And I'm not oblivious to the workings of a sexual act. And John said he wanted to go slowly but still enhance our intimacy. I have time to learn all those relationship rules everyone is referring to. I trust John and I trust myself."

The duck smiled back smugly.

Once shaved, dressed, and sat down cross-legged before the desk in the living room, Sherlock picked up his black gun from the table and checked that it was loaded. Not that he wasn't sure; he if anyone remembered what he did with his weapons, but because he wanted to look into the magazine.

For a moment, he contemplated testing the Smith & Wesson SD9 on the wall but recalled John's stern warning in his head.

" _The walls are thin, families live here, and Mycroft is essentially our landlord even if we don't pay him any rent. Don't shoot anything in our home._ "

So Sherlock wouldn't. Still, it gave him some satisfaction to twirl the gun around his finger in a reckless kind of way. When the novelty wore off, he put down the gun and turned on the laptop. He hadn't figured out what E, T, A meant yet and he also hadn't told Mycroft of his discovery. Just for once, Sherlock wanted to find an answer to a detail in this case by himself.

He found the particular article he was searching for on the newspaper's site and read it rapidly. It was an interesting-looking, potential case he considered taking over from Scotland Yard. At first everything had pointed at the murder being a simple crime of passion but Sherlock suspected there was something even more sinister behind the deed. He was tempted to hijack the case from DI Dimmock who had turned more forthcoming after the Chinese hairpin case. If Sherlock found some proof that indicated the case demanded further investigations, the policeman would forgive him for entering a crime scene uninvited.

Of course Sherlock still worked on the mystery with the fire and John's enemy, but it could work in their favour to have him change perspective for a while. Sherlock found the right tool on the computer and started to hack his way into the police's top secret documentation.

***

The snow only lay here and there now thanks to the never-ending wave of feet and wheels that moved over it and made it melt. The wind however remained cruel and chilling. Luckily, John forgot that now and then as he studied the decorated shop windows he passed and he soon found himself equipped with Christmas lights in different coulours, baubles, and miniature plastic things with attached loops.

Despite his small irritation that Mycroft's bodyguards, who he knew were following him at a distance, didn't approach him and offer to take some of the bags to make themselves useful, John was very content.

London had a certain charm close to as he exited another store, he got a text from Mycroft.

_DI Lestrade contained in safe medical environment. Please send information on Sherlock's progress. MH_

John was tempted to send something insufferably cheery to the politician only to spite him for his formality but stopped himself. It was best to leave Mycroft Holmes alone and not tease him for many reasons. One was that John didn't exactly like the prospect of having Sherlock's brother prying about and by chance discover his and Sherlock's new relationship. John shook off the awkwardness when he wondered up a busy street.

Suddenly he had to remove his gloves again because a new text arrived, this time from Lestrade.

_I see dead people. No, not really, but everyone here is probably ten times as intelligent as I am so it gets weird when they change my dressings. If this is the last you hear from me before I disappear in UK's Area 51, I want you and Sherlock to be nice to my successor. :-) GL_

John resisted giving a dubious look to an old lady who happened to be beside him. He wondered if Lestrade was off the morphine or if he had been drugged when he was taken to Mycroft's hidden place to be spared from the media. He raised his gaze and saw the familiar sign of a pharmacy.

"Couldn't hurt…" he mumbled into the scarf and went inside.

He soon had a packet of condoms, lube, and massage oil in his hands and waited for his turn in the queue. He was a doctor for Christ's sake; he could be clinical about these things. He had bought condoms before. But somehow he got a nervous feeling like when he was a teenager.

He just thought it could be practical to be prepared and have everything ready at home. Not that he planned on taking that step with Sherlock already. John knew he needed to do a bit of research at first, read suggestions on the Internet on how make the sex as pleasurable as possible. He wanted Sherlock, and his blushing cheeks and hotter temperature in the middle of a shop were clear signs of that. But this was something John hadn't done before. With some theoretical knowledge he would become more confident.

It wasn't presumptuous of him to buy condoms. He was aware he currently hadn't got any left, not since a couple of months before the fire. He stopped dating all together when he realized he couldn't keep a relationship with Sherlock in the picture. But he hadn't considered that a tragedy. Sherlock was always his first priority. John shuffled some tiny steps forward and studied the articles in his hands. He had thought he had enjoyed Sherlock's company in a platonic way earlier but now it became obvious he had fallen for the capable detective months or maybe even years ago.

John didn't depend on sex. It was fantastic, certainly, but that depended on the price. If Sherlock wasn't interested in the penetrating sort of sex, they would make do with something else. Not that Sherlock lacked arousal. John recalled the CCTV center with an amused grin. Sherlock's lips had moved eagerly under his, the tall man's warm bulge pushing against John's abdomen.

Taking a deep breath to give his brain enough oxygen, the doctor knew he needed to talk to Sherlock about where they intended taking this relationship. It was the most sensible thing to do, to prevent them from getting into a complicated situation due to absent communication. And John would never want to harm Sherlock. He himself wasn't that important. He was pretty compatible when it came to moments of intimate or sexual nature. But he had to tell Sherlock that, and wanted to know how much Sherlock had experienced because that man didn't give anything away and yet, John felt responsible for him. They needed to discuss this matter sometime soon.

He placed the items on the counter. The man behind it remained very professional and just did his job. John mused that when people have all kinds of not exactly funny ailments, sex products aren't that special in a pharmacy.

Once the new bag was in his hand, he went outside again and turned in the direction of the nearest underground station. So what if the guard knew he had visited a pharmacy. He could have bought something as trivial as toothpaste in there. John's stomach made a hungry protest. He would head home and make some lunch and possibly torture Sherlock by showing him what kind of decorations he had bought, piece by piece.

Unexpectedly, something shoved him hard in the back and John fell forward. On instinct, he reached out for a convenient lamppost for support and during those milliseconds, adrenalin and fear shot through his veins. He had definitely felt something hard and cold poke him in the small of the back. Like the muzzle of a gun.

John breathed hard and crouched down, surrounded by his bags. Was he to be killed or abducted in the middle of a busy street? He had never expected that. And he wouldn't allow it.

With practiced movements born from his time in the army, he deftly reached around with his arm carefully under the winter coat and found the reassuring weight of a gun in the belt. His fingers closed around it automatically as he mentally readied himself to either fling himself out of harm's way or make himself smaller if someone attempted to shoot the target.

He hoped no-one innocent would be caught in the middle and that he wouldn't have to open fire in Central London. He only wanted to let them know he was armed, too. He was calm and his hands steady.

He braced himself and turned around, comforted by the weight of the pre-cocked weapon and the 9mm bullets. It had all taken mere seconds. His eyes found the man.

John's jaw slackened and the hand gripping the gun stopped moving under the coat. He received a glare from a middle-aged man with receding hairline and a blank, flustered face. The man hurried past him and carelessly swung the bags in his hands. The bags that were so filled with toys some of them stood out in the space in the handles and threatened to poke anyone who came to close to the stressed man.

A typical father, hurrying to buy Christmas presents on his lunch break.

John sagged against the lamppost and hung his head. He had been so convinced it was someone who wished him dead. The anticlimax was not helping when the adrenalin dropped swiftly.

With a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh, John put the gun back in his belt, and took a deep breath. To be honest, he felt a little dizzy. Someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, Dr. Watson?"

He slowly lifted his head and met the serious eyes of a lean man in an expensive coat and a suit beneath. John shrugged off the hand and bent down to pick up his bags, anger building in him.

"I'm fine," he said tightly and made to walk but the other man didn't move out of his way. John avoided his searching gaze.

"I would have interfered but I saw who that man was before you did," the guard let out when John lashed out at him, because he had been scared and the temporary illusion that London was safe had been shattered. Above all, he was sad that he had become this paranoid he rather acted before asking questions. If he had shot that man…

"Where the hell were you when I needed a fucking Secret Service _service_? I counted on you to have my back and you are always behind me but not this time for some reason! How much does Mycroft pay to protect me, because he's clearly overpaying! If we both carry guns, we're brothers in arms and that means we're supposed to protect each other! He had the perfect opportunity to hurt me if he was one of them!"

The man's lips transformed into a thin line and he lifted a phone from his pocket. That action made John return to reality, away from the war in Afghanistan.

"Cygnus here. Requesting permission to talk to Mr. Holmes. Yellow." John clutched his bags and knew he couldn't wrestle the phone from the man but at least he could beg.

"Please don't tell Sherlock! Nothing happened so it's unnecessary to let him know. I'm fine. Don't upset him over nothing. Tell Mycroft that."

The man promptly turned around and began speaking some language John guessed was Asian. He remained where he was until the guard rung off in English.

"A car will pick you up in two. You will be dropped off one block from your house so Sherlock won't see. Mr. Holmes says he strongly suggests you stay there and rest tomorrow. And a DI Lestrade is most amusing according to his nurse."

John stayed silent until the car arrived, and all but pushed the man out of the way so he could open the door by himself. The incident kept repeating itself in his mind as he leant back on the white leather seat, ignoring the Anthea woman who sat beside him and sent text after text with manicured nails. At least Sherlock wouldn't get worried. That was something.

"It was Sherlock's idea. To give you a gun for safety," the enigmatic lady stated after a while. It wasn't a question, but also not criticism. John gave a short nod since it would seem impolite to not acknowledge her at all.

"You are not in a war, Dr. Watson."

At first, John was on the verge of snarling something rude at her but then reined in his fury and looked down at his hands in the lap. "Yeah, I know," he mumbled and looked at her. Her eyes never left the screen but her thumbs moved slower.

"We are not demanding of you to leave the weapon at home, but if you could please trust us, this will not happen again. Are you with me?" This time, she actually spared him a glance so John thought it best to answer. "It was a mistake, I get it. I got a fright. It's fine now."

"No, it's not. But it will get better," Anthea, or whatever she called herself this month, remarked and the slight incline of her head resembled a gesture of sympathy.

She gave the phone her full attention once more and left John alone throughout the rest of the ride.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAMFJohn is here. Good, huh? Sex and action inevitably approaching, y'all (*flails madly)! Send me comments, please, so I know what you think of the story.


	22. The hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get hotter, and John takes his responsibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written at a time when hot summer affected me, so that's why I'm so generous, when it comes to length of the chapter, and the content. Enjoy.

John had bought everything a normal Christmas tree required, apparently, though Sherlock couldn't comprehend why decoration companies hadn't begun producing garland nooses despite his annual messages to them. Morosely, Sherlock reckoned he would have to tie them himself this year as well.

He had handled the day alone well, had even managed to find ten possible ideas for how come the cheated and now dead wife had always left her phone at home when she went to get her weekly manicure. Didn't she want to be traced, perhaps? It was exhilarating to delve into a mystery that made sense for once.

In the evening, Sherlock got an e-mail from Scotland Yard with an attached link. It was a video of the press conference from that afternoon held by Sally as response to the critique against the police in general and Lestrade in particular after the fiasco in Wales. Sherlock watched it while smirking. Sally managed well on her own, and stressed that the police would investigate the whole thing, including verifying _all_ the previous statements from Welsh colleagues.

Sherlock just knew heads would roll for disloyally throwing the accomplished DI to the media. Sally sounded tough as she answered questions from the assembled journalists.

'That was tolerable,' Sherlock thought.

A few days passed with no contact from either Mycroft or Lestrade but that didn't worry Sherlock particularly. Maybe his developed relationship with John had something to do with that. The detective couldn't quite explain it, but he definitely felt more at ease and less likely to have angry fits. It seemed a constant smile resided on his lips, and it broadened whenever he laid eyes on John.

They hadn't slept together since that first time, but there had been a growing amount of exchanged touches during day-time. Touches that weren't necessarily sexual, but still spoke of affection. In the mornings, John brushed his fingers over Sherlock's hand as he handed him coffee. Sherlock rested his foot on John's swinging one under the table. John came to ask him questions when he sat by the computer, and dragged a hand through Sherlock's black curls. Sherlock always shuddered at that exquisite stimulation.

In return, Sherlock had mustered the courage to snuggle up to John's side on the sofa one evening when a football game was on TV, and to his surprise, John had lifted his arm and placed it around Sherlock's slender shoulders. But then again, John had probably done that many times with his previous girlfriends to not be alarmed by a person curling up by his side. Sherlock had discovered how warm John could be and he decided that he could grow used to that specific temperature. No words had left their lips, but an air of content settled in the living room even though the team John was cheering on lost.

Sherlock's hands seemed to have a mind of their own nowadays. Because at almost every opportunity when John showed a decent bit of skin, they wanted to be there to stroke, caress, feel. As crude as it might sound, John became an instrument Sherlock longed to play.

He ran his knuckles smoothly over lower arms smattered with golden hair, pressed the pads lightly into the yielding skin on John's neck, and mapped out the strong jaw with fluttering touches. John usually closed his eyes even if he stood in the hallway on his way out, and he took deeper breaths that made his chest expand in a hypnotic way. Sherlock's heart beat faster during those times, and faster yet when John finally opened his eyes and dilated pupils that nearly covered the brown wells met Sherlock's searching gaze.

The obvious signs of arousal made Sherlock respond in a similar manner but it always ended with him not taking that frightening step beyond the bridge, or John clearing his throat and leaving with a shy smile.

One day, faced with John stepping out from the steaming bathroom in not the familiar bathrobe, Sherlock froze. His brain was supposed to figure out what part the manicurist played in the new case but suddenly all his mind was good for was acknowledging how hard it was to resist walking up to John and touch the generous expanse of skin that presented itself when John only had a towel wrapped around his waist.

He could practically feel his pores begin to perspire beneath the suit. A blush on John's cheeks confirmed that the doctor had done this on purpose, but his eyes were not displaying that blinding hunger.

"Ah. Upping our level of comfort around each other?" Sherlock concluded as his eyes travelled over John's form, taking in the dusty pink nipples, the swell of John's strong chest, the faint shapes of muscles on his belly, and the tantalizing trail of beige hair that dipped down below the edge of the towel.

John self-consciously scratched his collarbone, which didn't distract Sherlock at all from the physical wonder before him. "Thought it was a good idea. Is it?"

Drops fell from John's spiked hair to his broad shoulders. Sherlock hummed. "I think it's…good."

A relieved smile bloomed out on John's face. "Really?"

"I'm certainly not lying, John," Sherlock said sarcastically and took one step closer, unable to deny himself the pleasure of being near John. The doctor held his breath and Sherlock lifted one hand, hovering between them like a bold ship on a wild ocean between two continents.

The seconds ticked by.

Sherlock wanted, really, he did, but suddenly a notch in his mind said no. He bit his lip and watched John's kind smile falter. The doctor didn't step forward to press his torso immediately against Sherlock's palm. Instead, he lifted his hand slowly and brought it to Sherlock's, weaving their fingers together.

Sherlock swallowed drily and felt ashamed and silly all of a sudden. A dreadful emotion rose inside him that made him want to cry. "John, I…" he began and internally cursed himself for sounding so fragile but John just shook his head and moved his thumb over Sherlock's fingers soothingly.

"It's okay. Totally okay this way, too." He looked at their joined hands in an indicating manner but Sherlock wasn't finished.

"I don't mean to… I want to, but I'm…afraid." As the word tumbled out from his mouth, it felt like a weight lifted from his shoulders but Sherlock's lack of a relationship manual rendered him clueless on whether he had offended John now, or made a fool of himself. He simply didn't know.

"Sherlock, I haven't accused you of anything. It's very much okay with me how you set the pace. Don't apologize for wanting to go slow. I wouldn't want to push you into something you're not comfortable with."

Stern eyes remained focused on the tall man who sagged a little. "I'm not…teasing you, am I? Tell me if I'm doing something wrong," Sherlock emitted.

A mischievous glint appeared in John's eyes and he chuckled before gesturing at his scarce attire with his free hand. "Right back at you. It's not you who's standing here in a towel like a bloody model now, is it?"

Unable to hide a small quirk of his lips, Sherlock replied softly, "In your defense, it is a very appealing body." He meant every word.

John blinked and gazed up at him. "You don't have to flatter me. You already have me," he muttered.

That had Sherlock tilting his head to the side in bewilderment. "You know I don't like to repeat myself but in this case I might make an exception. You do know how attractive you look?"

John shrugged, his eyes downcast. "Stop it."

The whisper sounded resolute. Sherlock clenched his jaw and ignored the initial instinct to run, because he didn't think John meant to reject him. He gripped John's hand tighter. "John, as the line goes; I like what I see. I refuse to believe that you're dependent on confirmation on your looks."

Thankfully, John didn't get angry, but he did stay subdued even though he flashed him an amused expression. "Come on. It's not my physical traits that get me laid. I'm funny, confident in front of dates, handy, intelligent, but I'm hardly the prettiest man on earth. I've understood that."

And just like that, it wasn't that difficult for Sherlock to overcome the threshold and touch John. He slid his pale hand up John's neck before cupping his chin and tipping it up.

"John," he rumbled as startled eyes stared back at him. "You can't scientifically measure beauty, but you are an attractive man for those who recognize how much the human race today has inherited from prehistoric ancestors. You are strongly built, can run fast, carry yourself with born authority. You radiate health, security, protection, and ability to provide for those you take care of. And that's just talking from a primitive survivor point of view. I've not even mentioned the delicate features of your face, or how fascinating the curve on the small of your back is to me, or how your eyes haunt me even when you are absent from my sight."

John ducked his head down and brought their joined hands up before brushing his wet lips against the detective's knuckles. "Okay, I get it, I'll shut up," he murmured and Sherlock exhaled shakily. He deduced John and read that he was moved by Sherlock's honest declaration.

John stepped closer until only a gap of some inches separated them from each other.

"Sherlock, may I kiss you?" It was a whisper that seemed to echo through the quiet flat. There was no protest from any obscure corner in Sherlock's mind.

"Yes."

John stretched himself and with ease that logically shouldn't feel so natural already, Sherlock bent down and met John's lips. The had only shared pecks these last few days, so Sherlock found it startling to realize how much he had missed kissing John. The missing evolved into raw longing and he may have emitted a whine because next, John was pushing more insistently against his lips and Sherlock parted them to nibble on the lower lip John proffered to him.

John released a gasp and his sweet breath tickled Sherlock's cavern in the most delightful way. "Oh, John," Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, every nerve inside him beginning to glow. He could with no trouble at all become an addict to oxytocin if this was how he received the dose.

John's tongue questioned inside his open mouth for the first time and once it stroked Sherlock's, Sherlock felt, heard, smelled, and tasted John and the sensation of several senses being stimulated made that hunger return with a blast. He dizzily recalled the delicious kiss in the CCTV center and his member behind the tailored trousers did, too.

As it began stirring, a groan, terrifying in its intensity, left Sherlock's throat and he then felt hands grip his arms and guide him backwards until his back connected with a wall. John's lips left his. A helpful thought informed Sherlock of the fact that John was only wearing a damp towel, and his body decided to tremble in response.

"Sherlock."

The hesitant tone was perceivable despite the pants and Sherlock reluctantly opened his bleary eyes.

"Yes?" He wasn't completely annoyed at how breathless and husky he sounded. John looked unbalanced, excited, and so tempting. Sherlock leant forward and captured his lips once more time. John let him but broke off far too soon for Sherlock's taste, and shook his head as if clearing it. His hands remained on Sherlock's jacket, keeping him efficiently pinned to the wall. "

We have to stop now. _I_ have to stop now. You're way too talented at this."

Sherlock squirmed at the compliment, though secretly pleased, and peered at John's heaving chest. "You have goose bumps," he let out and John looked down.

"Yeah, I guess I do. It's mostly because of you, but I'm also getting a bit cold. It's winter. I need to get dressed after a shower. And a kiss was all I asked for. Your pace, remember," he stated.

Sherlock certainly understood that, and nodded earnestly. He liked kissing John, but touching a whole lot of skin could make his brain overload. He was content with what John had given him this time.

"Yes. I'm not ready for…further, but this was pleasant. Thank you, lips, hmm. Well, go and get dressed immediately so you get warm," Sherlock replied incoherently since his mind was still recovering from the sudden assault of emotions and sensations.

John gave him a genuine look of approval, moved his hands up to Sherlock's cheeks before turning around and striding towards his bedroom. The gesture should have felt belittling, but to Sherlock at this point, it only felt right.

***

The two flatmates fell into a rhythm of normality, as far as normality goes with Sherlock Holmes. John welcomed Sherlock's increasing touches but was determined to not rush this relationship. Sherlock was not a man one seduced and then dumped, nor did John wish to treat him like that. So John's plan was to take it one day at a time without presumptions.

As it turned out, John thought slow was good. To let the building relationship take its time was not disagreeable. But apart from the occasional episodes of touches that made John take himself in hand at night and bring himself over the brink of pleasure, life went on.

Sherlock had a new case that seemed to make him less tense, John returned to the clinic, and his anticoagulant level returned to normal. Everything was fine.

"John! Oh, there you are."

John had ducked under his desk to put an errant paper into the waste basket and when he rose to his feet, Sarah had entered his office.

"Hello," he replied awkwardly and seated himself on the chair to at least appear to be a dignified doctor. Sarah placed a heavy file on his desk.

"Just wanted you to look at this. Since I'm going on a holiday on Friday, I'm appointing you as temporary manager. Here are important documents and the schedules for the personnel over Christmas and New Year so don't misplace them for God's sake."

John nodded seriously and opened the file so Sarah would be pleased with his interest. "Yes, good. Wow, great work on those tables. You definitely deserve a long holiday if you're going through all this trouble for a schedule," he mused and Sarah snickered.

"I can't wait to go to where the sun is. Cocktails and beaches, here I come." Then she crossed her arms and rocked in that way that made John slightly nervous.

"What?"

Sarah pursed her lips. "John, I've given you the responsibility for the clinic. I know you're more than qualified for the task, but I must ask you one last time: you are going to be here and see our patients? It would be a really bad time for us if you ran off to, I don't know, Edinburgh with Sherlock and left the clinic with two doctors short."

John swallowed down the initial urge to be offended when Sarah had felt the need to ask again if he would be there. After all, he _had_ been absent for quite some time this autumn, thanks to some maniac, but that still left Sarah struggling with sick people and schedules. He could definitely afford to show her some empathy.

"I promise I'll be here. I'll follow your schedule, and no patient shall complain. So you can just fly to your fancy destination with no worries while I'm stuck here in freezing London."

Upon his dry remark, Sarah arched an eyebrow. "Oh, someone is jealous. Well, I have to see the Cooper kids again: bad case of fever. But thank you for doing me this favour, John. I'm counting on you."

John saluted when she left before hiding the obscenely thick file in a drawer with a grimace. He was already missing home, and Sherlock.

After a dinner of take-away from the Indian place, Sherlock dispatched John's thought of work by grabbing his arm and all but hauling him into the hallway and throwing his coat over him.

"Get dressed. We're going out tonight."

John was immediately enthusiastic and obediently put on his boots. "For a date? You're so romantic," he joked but suddenly Sherlock stopped in the middle of tying the scarf around his neck and frowned.

"I hadn't really thought… _Are_ you expecting a date, John?"

John mentally slapped himself for saying things that Sherlock could misinterpret. "No, I was just being silly. And I know you're not into that kind of interaction. So, where are we going?"

Sherlock didn't take the bait.

"I could take you out, if you want that. But you've not come out with your sexual orientation John," Sherlock said slowly and picked specks from his black coat. With a deep inhale, John checked that the gun was secured in his belt, and replied, "I know. I want to wait a bit longer. Need to sort my thoughts out first. You're okay with that, right?"

He didn't mention that Sherlock hadn't really come out himself either even though people assumed he preferred men or nothing at all. Sherlock was probably already aware of that. The detective picked up his leather gloves and put them on, beginning to look striking with his pale complexion mixing with the dark clothes.

"Certainly. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think we've already established that we would wait to tell the world."

"Don't be snarky, love," John warned with a smirk, and might have given Sherlock a push out the door which sent the consulting detective stumbling with flapping arms. Sherlock glared at him all the way down in the lift.

It turned out Sherlock was bringing John with him to investigate the bins of the murdered Mrs. Johnson in the cover of the night. Sherlock raided through the married couple's waste while John kept watch. Sherlock released a cry of triumph when he dug out an empty nail polish bottle, though John didn't grasp how much difference a bottle could do to a seemingly obvious case, but he knew better than doubting Sherlock.

Sherlock hid the item in a plastic bag and then they took a cab back home, just like the old times, only they wouldn't return to Baker Street. Sherlock's garments reeked of waste, but his wide smile and rosy cheeks made John continue to glance at him, entranced, throughout the ride. Sherlock was so alive.

Once inside the warmth of their flat, Sherlock shedd his coat and removed his dirty gloves. With John behind him, the detective marched to the desk in the living room and placed the empty bottle there like a trophy. He spun around and rolled his shoulders. "Good booty tonight. Now, Scotland Yard will only have to…"

John had approached him inaudibly and tentatively leaned in to brush his nose over the soft skin of Sherlock's elegant neck. He felt the man stiffen, but knew Sherlock could push him away should he want to. However, Sherlock stayed immobile. John inhaled Sherlock's scent, tinted with chemicals and spicy cologne, and Sherlock looked so tall and solid. John wanted to worship this man.

He slid his lips over the trembling neck and then a hushed gasp came from above. Sherlock's wrists came up to rest over John's shoulders and they swayed against each other with sublime delicacy. When Sherlock inclined his head to make more room for John's mouth, the doctor moaned approvingly and dared a lick from Sherlock's collarbone to the lobe of his heating ear. Sherlock shuddered and another needy noise of arousal left him.

"You're so responsive," John breathed, amazed at the reactions he could coax from the man by just licking his neck. "Sherlock, you… you smell so good."

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed. "That's probably the pheromones. Though, it's not a stated fact amongst the scientists that humans have this chemical but I did this most peculiar discovery when I was eighteen and…"

"Shut up," John whispered and searched for Sherlock's lips. John didn't know for how long they stood there, mating with their wet tongues, growing hotter, until he was suddenly guiding them towards the sofa. Sherlock complied with a mewl and proceeded to remove his jacket. John almost lost it then and there, watching Sherlock having glassy eyes, territorial marks on his neck and a tight shirt that revealed the outlines of his chest, and taut nipples.

The lust exploded inside John and he groaned desperately. He lowered Sherlock onto the sofa and fell over him, searching to reclaim the open mouth. Sherlock tasted of garam masala. While giving Sherlock a deep kiss, John guided his head back until the entire creamy expanse of the glorious neck was exposed. Contrary to what he had expected, Sherlock actually relinquished his power and submissively surrendered to John who couldn't be more delighted to get a taste of his treasure.

"John, oh!"

John bent down and presses his lips right over the Adam's apple which quivered as his lips parted and his tongue explored the area he had never found on anyone he had had sex with. Sherlock sucked in gulps of air and a violent tremor went through him.

"Sherlock, here," John mumbled and gripped the detective's hands before placing them firmly on either side of his hips, letting the other man get familiar with his body as well. Sherlock moved his hands in small circles, as if afraid of tickling John, and when John's jumper was rucked up, Sherlock tilted his head back on the cushion and gave John a hasty look.

"Can I?"

His fingers ventured briefly under the edge of the too warm fabric, and John was suddenly as affected by the stimulation as Sherlock had been to his.

"Jesus! Yes," he sighed and they stilled, John on top of Sherlock, as long fingers slipped under John's jumper and caressed the skin on his belly and waist. Sherlock's touch was precise but exploring and John became aware of how his hard body was pinning Sherlock to the cushions.

Every inch of his hard body.

Not that Sherlock wasn't reciprocating, hell; it was he who efficiently took John by surprise by spreading his legs so most of John's weight landed on him. Sherlock's hands ran along John's sides before moving up and settling on the small of his back, kneading gently.

"I'm not hurting you, am I? I can hold myself up," John murmured and received the second glare from Sherlock that night.

"I would tell you if it doesn't feel right. We agreed on that. Now, will you shut up and kiss me," the grumpy man uttered and a wave of desire surge south inside John. Oh, he was so infatuated with this fantastic man.

He plunged his tongue inside Sherlock's waiting mouth, and rocked into the cradle of Sherlock's parted legs. They were both hard, rubbing subtly against the other. For a dangerous moment, Sherlock lifted his hips and pushed himself firmly against John's length. John raised his head up and released an unrestricted moan before scarlet hunger filled his mind. Absently, he noticed he was bucking rhythmically into Sherlock's crotch, pressure building inside.

"I want you to touch me," Sherlock stuttered and jerked under John's ministrations. John looked down at him. The detective's grey eyes were narrowed in a dazed way and the pupils blown. John didn't know exactly what Sherlock meant with that declaration. To touch him with caresses, or… touch him very intimately?

At once, it occurred to John what they were on verge of doing on a sofa and it wasn't sensible in the least. Annoyed with himself for letting go of control for so long, he ended the kiss and eased off Sherlock and felt the cool hands on his back clench for a second before they relaxed and slid off. With stiff legs, John sat up and reached out one hand to tug Sherlock up. The detective went compliantly, but his brows were knitted and his chest still heaved with need for oxygen.

John dragged a sobering hand over his face and tried to momentarily forget the fact that Sherlock sat beside him with his shirt askew, swollen lips, red spots on his cheeks and a small tent in his trousers. Much like John, in that respect, then.

"John?"

"We need to talk about sex," John emitted. Sherlock went pink from his forehead to the chest.

"Must we have this conversation now?" the man said with an indignant tone but John remained stoic.

"Yes, we absolutely must. It's getting close."

"Close to what, exactly?" Sherlock snarled.

"Having our wicked way with each other?" John suggested with raised eyebrows and Sherlock flushed some more.

"So, have you…" John waved his hand vaguely in the air.

"Engaged in what most people would deem intimate activities of an erotic nature? Yes." Sherlock was still blushing but he seemed to overcome his arousal and pulled up his legs to sit cross-legged.

"Right. Okay. Good. Fine." John scratched the back of his neck. It would be best if he said something now. "I haven't done anything except things with women, and not anything anal." He cursed at the way his cheeks burned because he as a mature doctor had a responsibility to handle this smoothly even if it was deeply personal and felt strange to reveal himself completely. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the window but his Adam's apple bobbed.

"I mean, I obviously fancy you, but I didn't seek out male company before… us. Three-ways never was my thing; I knew that even as one girlfriend asked me."

"Cathy," Sherlock interrupted and John saw Sherlock's brain deduce as his grey eyes traveled over his face.

"Well, yes, and I walked in on some blokes going at it in the army. In England and Afghanistan." John stifled a laugh at the amusing but also awkward memories. Those guys had certainly looked like they enjoyed themselves. But he had more important things to focus on now.

He cocked his head to the side. "So you have sexual experience. Any limits I should know about?" he asked silently and Sherlock shrugged, gaze dropping to his own lap.

"I don't know."

John breathed out, breathed in, bracing himself for an eventual slap he was about to receive. Yet, he needed to know. "What have you done? Penetrative sex or fondling, if it's alright to ask?"

Sherlock risked a glance at him before releasing the lip he had uncharacteristically been chewing on. "Always hands. Outside. My body." Sherlock squirmed on the spot. There was not a sign of cockiness left in him.

John decided to calm him with words and keep his hands to himself throughout this conversation. "So, essentially; we're both gay virgins."

Sherlock whipped his head up and surprise was displayed on his face. "I…hadn't thought of it that way," he mumbled.

"We just have to make sure we're both thoroughly prepared and communicating. Hell, I'm not even sure of my limits in this area, even if I'm pretty compatible in bed, so we just have to try and see," John explained and watched Sherlock perk up.

"It seems like a proper plan to execute," Sherlock replied stiffly, though he looked relieved. John scratched his head and cleared his throat.

"I have a suggestion. Of course we can do it however you want but it's just a proposal to ensure we're somewhat coordinated." Sherlock looked like he was listening. "Since I've been with women, I've become good at, well, giving them pleasure. I've developed certain, ah, techniques I'm comfortable with. So, to make this experience, whenever it happens, feel good, I could be the one…topping. How do you feel about that?"

John definitely wanted to take off his stifling jumper but remained still while waiting for Sherlock's response. A curt nod came.

"I need more affirmation than that, Sherlock, so I don't hurt you," John said gently and the detective coughed weakly.

"That would be ideal, given the circumstances. Yes. I think I'd like that." At that point, Sherlock turned his head John's way and conviction and trust were displayed on his face. John rubbed his hands together hesitatingly. "Okay," he smiled before actually reaching out and caressing the chiseled jaw, feeling Sherlock lean into the touch.

"And if there's anything, anything at all you'd like to say to me, or share with someone else for that matter; just do it. The important thing is communication. I'm not kidding, Sherlock," John added for good measure but they were obviously on the same page now.

It was then, when neither of them was sure if they should resume the kiss, or break off, that an unfamiliar and muffled ringtone was heard from the desktop.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sooo sorry for the cliffhanger but I had to include something other than snogging in the chapter to feel good. This is how I imagine John would deal with approaching sex with Sherlock, to actually talk about it before it happens even if that means things get embarrassing or awkward. What did you think of my idea? Send me a comment.


	23. The threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news and an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay but I had much to do IRL. The thing is, now I've published all the chapters I currently have, so now you'll have to wait some days until the next update, but I hope I have you hooked, ha ha. Thanks for the response and the lovely kudos that make me happy. Oh, and don't miss the next chapter! Enjoy!

John scrambled up the moment the intimacy was broken but as he hurried over to the desk, Sherlock was already there, ruffled appearance notwithstanding, and rummaged through the large stack of papers that covered the surface. John thought it best to stand back and let Sherlock's lethal fingers do their frantic work but in the meantime he heard the shrill noise get louder.

When Sherlock moved some files to the side, a vibrating and blinking phone was revealed. John frowned as Sherlock snatched it up. That was the cheap phone they had used to call John's army acquaintances. They had both forgotten about the phone a long time ago, especially after John had started to bleed.

John looked sharply at Sherlock who took a heaving breath, getting himself into detective mode, not a trace left from the previous lust.

"Hello?" he said in his most neutral voice while John studied him carefully. Even though the detective had the phone pressed to his ear, John could easily perceive the shouting that followed.

"Journalist, like hell you are! That call was the only weird one I've gotten for six months. You fucking twat! I'll rip you to pieces!"

"Miles Stewart, is it?" Sherlock replied with acid and John took a step closer. His old Welch patient from the army sounded enraged.

"I'm not an idiot! You sent the police after me, and they harassed my wife!"

"Your ex-wife," Sherlock corrected coolly despite the disapproving glare he received from John afterwards. Not a good move.

"We were treated like fucking terrorists! No rights, interrogated for days. And it's your fault!"

Stewart sounded murderous and John couldn't grasp how Sherlock could look so unaffected when a man screamed into his ear.

"You know Dr. Watson, right? You live with him, I've heard from a reliable source. _Consulting detective_ Sherlock Holmes."

Now Sherlock began to pale and his eyes darted to John's, query in his face. How could Stewart know this? Sherlock quietly pressed the speaker button and waved John to come over to his side. John stared angrily at the phone.

"Not so cocky now, are you? Maybe it's me who's got the upper hand now," Stewart chuckled and the conversation had turned too hostile for John's taste. He made to speak when Sherlock mouthed a no at him and pushed him in the chest, shoving him back almost in a protecting manner that John didn't appreciate right now.

"What was that?" Stewart hissed and Sherlock grounded out through clenched teeth, "Irrelevant. Why are you calling me?"

A cackle that resembled a genuine laugh filed the room. "I'm just saying, you aren't as safe as you'd like to think," Stewart revealed silkily.

"That's a threat," Sherlock stated but the other man snorted.

"And maybe I'm calling from an untraceable phone box. No-one can get to me here. Told you I wasn't an idiot. The government would find me otherwise. They are everywhere. The question is, can they protect Dr. Watson and you?"

John had heard enough. To threaten him was unacceptable, sure, but to even imply something bad would happen to Sherlock made his blood boil. He was getting really tired of Stewart's bullshit, and he would let him know it. With pursed lips, chin pushed out and clenched fists by his sides, John tackled his way to the phone despite Sherlock's sloppy attempts to stop him.

"Private Stewart! If I were you, I'd seriously consider hanging up now and leave us alone," John boomed with his most commanding voice to give the man who didn't deserve it one last chance to back away. Stewart didn't take the way out.

"Why, Captain Watson! First-class hero and marvelous army doctor! I wish you'll die tonight!" Stewart shouted with horrible craze and John lost his composure.

"What do you want from me? As far as I know, I haven't done anything to you! You want an apology for me getting shot the day before your hand got injured? Not that that's my fault but here it is: I'm sorry," John barked and Sherlock crowded his space, looming over him like a dark cloud. A dark cloud that didn't want him to engage in this conversation.

"John…"

"You fucked up my life, Watson! You made my innocent wife cry when her freedom was robbed from her!"

John countered in a yell before he had time to think, "You shot my friend! He nearly died! You're a mad killer, you pile of shit!"

"John!"

Sherlock backed away a little, and John appreciated the expended room for his swinging arms. But he realized the tone Sherlock had used was dismayed. And then he understood that he had made a mistake in his upset state.

"Oh! This story gets more interesting by the minute. So that bastard Lestrade is a friend of yours?"

Stewart sounded gleeful and Sherlock spat back, "The DI is out of your reach. You can't hurt him anymore."

A scrape from the phone indicated that Stewart was dragging his nails against something hard in the phone box. "No, but it was amusing to see him struggle to duck my bullets, and the bullets from the media. But _you_ are not safe, either of you. Watch yourself, pricks!"

Stewart hung up, leaving Sherlock clutching a phone in his hand and John gaping. It was John who spoke first.

"We must inform Mycroft about this. Immediately."

Sherlock stuttered, cleared his throat and placed the phone on the desk as if it repelled him.

"Sherlock?"

"It was most likely empty threats. A man with wounded pride trying to defend what he still believes is his woman. He enjoyed the media circus around Scotland Yard. He's a mad alcoholic in the middle of no-where. He can't harm us."

"But he said…" John interjected with an accusing finger pointing at the phone but Sherlock stepped in-between and brushed his chest against John's.

"No, John," he mumbled, shaking his head. John turned his remaining frustration at Sherlock.

"What do you know about that? How can you be so sure that he hasn't planned something with his anarchistic online friends no-one can seem to find? He's after us, and you!"

Sherlock cupped his jaw and John resisted the urge to wrench himself free. "Because Mycroft sent his best men to investigate Stewart. The man may utter awful things but he can't actually do anything towards us without detection. He only shot Lestrade because they approached him in his cottage. He's isolated himself after the time in Afghanistan. He's nothing. A wreck."

John looked up at the concerned grey eyes that were fixed on him. "He threatened you. I got angry," John mumbled and Sherlock read his excuse for revealing their connection to Lestrade.

"Everyone is safe, John. It's late and you have a clinic to run tomorrow. Go to bed," Sherlock said softly and stroked his arm in a way that drained John of the last bit of fury.

Hoping that the day still could end pleasantly, John tilted his head up and whispered next to Sherlock's ear, the one that hadn't been subjected to Stewart's vicious screams, "Sleep in my bed tonight. Please."

He needed to feel Sherlock close, not for sexual purposes, but for reassurance that Sherlock was secure. Plus, the doctor wanted to be nearby if Sherlock had a late reaction to the eerie call.

Sherlock gasped and bowed his head until John felt swollen lips nibble on the crook of his neck and silken curls brush over the little patch of skin on his shoulder that was bared thanks to the fairly wide neckline of his jumper.

"How can I refuse such a politely expressed invite?" the detective hummed before drawing back. John grinned at him. So it seemed Sherlock had turned much bolder after the first proper snog.

As Sherlock prepared for bed in the bathroom, John discarded his jumper and the shirt beneath and spared a look at his bed. That furniture had never been as crowded as it would be this night. Still, he wasn't about to jump Sherlock like some maniac, he did have standards.

John tugged on his t-shirt and went to undo his belt. He paused however, reached behind and tapped the gun. Yes, he would definitely not tell Sherlock about the incident on the street some days ago when he was shopping Christmas decorations.

Despite what Anthea or anyone else said, it felt reassuring to carry the weight of a weapon on his person. Especially when idiots called him. And somehow, John found himself reconsidering his attitude towards Stewart.

Maybe Sherlock had been right; the man was bitter, depressed, alone. Who wouldn't be after experiencing trauma and injuring a hand? Sure Stewart scared John, with his intense hatred, for it reminded him of how easily he himself could have turned into the same creature if he hadn't met Sherlock and gotten rid of his misery. But the man maybe just needed someone, some understanding.

John lost his track of thoughts as he placed the gun on a shelf in the wardrobe and removed his trousers, leaving the boxers on. Deciding to take on a practical approach, and to not let nervousness overwhelm him, he got into bed, the same side where he had slept when he'd been in Sherlock's bed.

Before he had time to consider rolling his thumbs, a tall detective dressed in pajamas entered his bedroom. Sherlock was texting and reading out loud.

" _Stewart called. Very impolite. Phone box in Wales. Action required. SH._ " He pressed the send button hard and left the phone on the night-table on his side. "There. Let's see how this makes Mycroft feel when he has to get up in the middle of the night and remove his facial mask."

Sherlock sniggered sinisterly before sliding under the fluffy cover in a fluent motion. John turned towards him, disoriented by the man's suspicious ease at climbing into a strange bed when he to say the least had been edgy when John visited his bedroom.

"Are you alright?" John asked carefully and received a vague wave.

"Certainly. Here I am beside you in a bed that doesn't have an ancient bedframe with _poles_. The government is chasing after Stewart as we speak, and we have kissed vigorously and found proof that Mrs. Johnson wasn't the law-abiding citizen everyone thought she was. I'm happy to go to sleep after an eventful day and evening, I noticed the PVC duck's tail feathers are slightly deformed after the microwave, and everything is splendid," Sherlock rushed out with a voice that grew higher and higher.

'Oh, dear," John thought and recognized the behavior of a distressed and exhausted Sherlock. He hoped it wouldn't be like the night Lestrade got shot, for both their sake.

"Sherlock, look at me."

The detective whipped his head around so fast that the curls whirled through the air. John went for a smile.

"Hey."

"The proper greeting at this time would be good night," Sherlock answered stiffly but did position his hand palm up on the area between them. Without analyzing, John placed his own over Sherlock's and squeezed it softly.

"It's perfectly fine if you'd rather sleep in your own room. I don't mind," John let out and watched Sherlock close his eyes momentarily and shift.

"I told you I like it here. The bed satisfies my needs. It's exhilarating to duplicate the experience of sleeping in the same bed as you," Sherlock mumbled back and secretly made John feel more at ease since that meant his friend wasn't opposed to sharing his bed. John bounced their intertwined hands on the mattress. "Then what's the matter? I can see something's bothering you."

The haughty expression disappeared and instead the corners of Sherlock's mouth angled downwards. "I know he can't get to us according to pure logic but I remain worried about you because of the things he said."

There was no question who Sherlock was referring to. John exhaled and plucked at the sheet with his unoccupied fingers.

"I know. I was scared, too. That's why I got so angry when he threatened you. I guess we're shaken, but you've informed Mycroft, and we have protection. We're okay," John comforted and saw Sherlock lift his gaze to meet his eyes.

"You matter to me, John. Never doubt that," he said seriously and John gulped under the relentless expression in the grey pools.

"Thanks," he whispered, because it seemed right to whisper all of a sudden, and then he brightened and slid down to lie on his side on the bed, turned towards the detective. Sherlock followed him after letting go of his hand and Sherlock was the master of burrowing down and making himself look comfortable.

John failed to cover a yawn before he emitted, "You were saying something about the duck…?"

A sharp inhale came that sounded like regret. John brightened and peered curiously at the blushing man.

"It just slipped out… Just a minor detail I noticed when I was brushing my teeth."

"Should we get a new one?" John wondered timidly, already planning on giving one to Sherlock for Christmas when sheer panic bloomed out on Sherlock's face.

"No! I was only presenting the facts. There's _nothing_ _wrong_ with the duck, except. The tail feathers. Are merely. Deformed," Sherlock finished meekly and John couldn't help the chuckle.

"Okay, calm down. We're keeping the toy. Jesus." But Sherlock relaxed into the pillows, a vision of relief.

John began to wonder if he should be jealous of that toy, considering how protective about it Sherlock got. In addition to that, that piece of rubber got to see Sherlock naked often and…that really wasn't useful to John now when he was knackered and had promised to not launch himself at the detective, no matter how much he endeared the doctor.

"Good night, Sherlock," John said flatly and reached to switch off the light when Sherlock snuggled some inches closer, not so they touched, but still _closer_.

"Good night, John."

***

Sherlock slept well considering the circumstances. It felt like his head was filled with cotton when he woke up to the rustling of clothes.

Reluctantly, he opened his rested eyes and found John's shape by the open wardrobe in the obscure light of a dark winter morning. A small, exasperated protest escaped him, because Sherlock suddenly wanted John by his side. John stilled and turned around.

"Hello, there," he whispered and Sherlock ran a hand through his tousled hair.

"The clinic again." It was a statement, though it dulled Sherlock's mood nevertheless.

John shrugged and retrieved a cardigan from its drawer. "Yeah, that's the deal with regular jobs: you have to be there every day."

Sherlock's gaze wandered over John's form, admiring his night attire that left him in nothing but a tight t-shirt, fitting boxers, and dog tags. With perfectly executed movements, Sherlock shuffled until he sat up with the cover pooled around his waist.

Whether he was oblivious or indifferent, John began to change while Sherlock studied him with curious eyes.

All of a sudden, just as John buttoned his jeans, Sherlock remembered his text to Mycroft last night. His brother must have been bound to send a reply even if Sherlock had been asleep. He leaned over on his side and picked up his phone. Indeed, there was a message.

_Sincerely hope you didn't provoke him into this. We might reevaluate him. By the way, DI Lestrade says hello and has heard from DI Dimmock about an intrusion in Scotland Yard's files. In any case, keep a low profile. MH_

"I won't be bullied by those insufferable imbeciles!" Sherlock scowled and made the doctor jump from his outburst. Sherlock set to write a venomous reply and more or less stabbed the buttons.

"Erm, not that I mind, but do you plan on staying in my bed the whole morning?" John inquired slowly and brought Sherlock from planning his revenge. He lowered the phone and looked around, puzzled by his comfortably crossed legs under the cover and the arranged pillows that supported his back. A small crease appeared on the detective's forehead.

"Maybe. I'm content here. Mycroft is dealing with Stewart, though not without a few jabs at me," Sherlock revealed in a peeved tone, but widened his eyes as John stepped closer and bent over the bed.

"Just make my bed when you're leaving, okay? And you can reach me on my phone if you need to talk or something."

The doctor ended his speech by pressing his lips tenderly against Sherlock's temple, and Sherlock might have inclined his head like a purring cat and captured John's chin before he withdrew to place a swift but definitely tangible kiss on his soft lips.

"See you, later," John breathed, a fog developing in his brown eyes, and stepped away to take his gun and then leave the room. He left the door open so Sherlock could hear him prepare breakfast and whatnot.

Once John had exited the flat, Sherlock breathed in deeply, and let the scents of sleep and John fill his senses. He was beginning to feel restless however from his inactivity and so, he got up and went to the bathroom. The duck seemed happier than ever on its throne of porcelain shaped into a sink and didn't mind when Sherlock tossed his pajamas haphazardly on the floor and stepped into the tub.

As he stood under the streaming water, Sherlock discovered that the image of John moving around in his scarce attire pushed every other thought to the back of his mind. That was the incitement Sherlock needed to allow himself some carnal pleasure.

He pushed his hair from his face and slid his long fingers down his neck, gasping at the tender spot where John had sucked last night. The humid air surrounding him left him wonderfully dazed and his fluttering fingertips experimentally skimmed over his nipples. Tingles spread inside him and Sherlock gripped the shower head for future support. He always was good at thinking in advance.

While his hand slid lower, playing idly with the darker, coarser hair that trailed from his navel, the detective felt his length grow hotter, heavier, stiffer. His mind went for sensations and sounds mainly, which had him thinking about John sitting on him and pressing his erection into Sherlock's crotch, tangled tongues leaving him disoriented, John's moans when Sherlock caressed the small of his back.

Sherlock let out a raspy moan of his own and wouldn't deny himself further pleasure even if it left him spent. He looked down and followed his hand's movements as it encircled his swollen length and hugged it. The instant response from his body fired off Sherlock's libido and he bucked into the air, as waves of delicious heat washed over him.

"Oh, God!" he called out with a hoarse tone and squeezed his eyes shut, letting drops fall into his open mouth. He bit his lip.

Absently, he understood his hand was moving in a way it hadn't done in a long time and he was a sensitive mess down there. John had been moving rhythmically against him and the want felt intoxicating.

No disgust intervened to tell him that what he was doing was not treating his body functions as transport, but Sherlock absolutely didn't care. He sped up his strokes, driving himself closer to a tantalizing horizon and his sobs mingled with the slick noises and water drumming against the tub.

Suddenly Sherlock snapped his eyes open and his thumb moved over the taut, glistening head just as a taste of metal filled his mouth and his mind connected it to John's dangling dog tags that rocked against the man's broad chest.

It turned out it was blood from Sherlock's split lip but he was already beyond reason. A tight, long stroke had him ejaculating, dripping white fluid into the tub and his buttocks clenched when he thrust into the small ring made by his hand. Ripples travelled across his skin as a rumbling cry left his throat. His knuckles turned white on the hand that gripped the shower head.

Once the orgasm was over, Sherlock sagged against the wet wall, smiling fleetingly at the relatively cool tiles against his warm back and he tossed his disheveled hair to the side.

"Umm. Oh. Good," he mumbled once he got his breath back and collected himself. He licked his lips and first now felt the sting from the cut his teeth had made. Quite the contrary to what he had believed, he didn't feel completely tired after the session of self-pleasuring, only calmly aware of his body and content that he could respond so intensely to the thought of John.

So Sherlock washed himself, prepared for the day, and his member was tucked into his underwear and wouldn't cause any trouble for at least some hours.

The peace in the flat ended in the late afternoon when someone rang the doorbell simultaneously as Sherlock received a text. He opted for the phone first, his features tensing when the screen showed an unknown number. Had Stewart found out his personal phone number? Sherlock opened the text.

_A visitor. He's safe. Cassiopeia_

Mycroft's dark-haired assistant, then. Immediately, Sherlock marched into the hall and pressed the button for conversation.

"Yes?" he drawled upon seeing a short, sturdy man in a knitted hat and a thick coat outside the entrance of the building. The middle-aged man jerked to life and leaned closer to the camera, clearly unused of these devices.

'Living in an area without those, apparently. Clothes not stylish, only practical, no famous labels. Middle or working class,' Sherlock deduced automatically when the man tipped his head back and exposed his bronzed face.

"I'm…I'm Samir Ghaddar. I know Dr. Watson. Can I come in?"

Not that Sherlock wanted to entertain a guest of John's until said doctor returned home from the clinic, but he suspected John would find it proper to let in the Lebanese restaurant owner. The advantage Sherlock realized with such a visit was an excellent opportunity to finally inspect the man face to face.

"The door's open," Sherlock stated and pressed the proper button. Then he spun around and let his eyes sweep around the flat once. It looked habitable, absent books on the floor and body parts in the fridge. John wouldn't be mad for how his home looked when Sherlock welcomed a friend of his into the flat.

When echoing steps sounded through the door, Sherlock opened it smoothly and took one step over the threshold, taking in the unassuming man with detective-greedy eyes.

Rarely a good night's sleep, hands calloused in the way of a shop owner and server, a brain that knew the price of objects, not afraid of enterprises. Huddling shoulders: frightened still, and unsure at the tall stranger before him who didn't behave like normal people.

Sherlock caught himself and stopped staring at the man. Instead, he held out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective. Pleasure to meet you."

The other man visibly relaxed at the changing of his stance, and shook Sherlock's hand firmly.

"I'm Samir Ghaddar."

'I know,' Sherlock thought in a snarky way before offering a fake smile that could fool Lestrade, not John.

"Well, do come in, Mr. Ghaddar and present your matter," he delivered formally and strolled inside and led the way to the living room after the man had removed his large coat and hat. The bald man sunk down in one of the armchairs at Sherlock's pointing gesture and his jeans stretched over his legs whereas the brown jacket bunched around his middle. The detective sat down in the other one and pressed his hands together under his chin in expectation.

Samir's eyes however darted around and his fingers moved anxiously on the armrest. Sherlock swallowed an annoyed huff and held out a hand.

"Do you want anything? To drink, eat?"

Samir stirred and turned shocked eyes towards him as if he had forgotten where he was.

"No, no. I'm fine. Thank you" he stuttered and Sherlock could practically touch the dread in the air. The seconds ticked by, silence settling in the room. Sherlock blinked. Samir opened his mouth but didn't meet Sherlock's observing gaze.

"Dr. Watson… He's not home yet."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled, unable to hide his impatience. Samir shrank back in the armchair. Sherlock backpedalled.

"He'll be home in half an hour, I assume. I think your visit will make him happy."

Samir shifted and gave him a lopsided smile that lasted for two seconds. "So he's healthy again? No poison in his blood?"

Sherlock clasped his hands in his lap and crossed his legs elegantly. "His anticoagulants have reached normal levels, yes. But as we're waiting for him, why don't you tell…"

"I didn't mean to harm him!" the man blurted in an upset voice and was up and stalking back and forth faster than Sherlock would have given him credit for.

"Poor Dr. Watson. He is a good man. But you weren't there when that dog pointed a gun at me and threatened my children! I had to take the bags of poison or else he'd punish me!" Samir exclaimed and his open face was ridden by guilt and angst. Sherlock found no reason to blame the man who also had been a victim of the mysterious gangster in the gorilla mask.

"Mr. Ghaddar, as far as I know, John doesn't blame you at all. You saw no other way out from your predicament," he said while straightening the sleeves of his jacket. The standing man paused and buried his hands in his pockets, clearly forcing himself to regain control over his emotions.

"I haven't been able to work since the police took me in to interrogate me. I feel so bad. I know that man is still out there, and he can get to me or my family despite the protection we've been promised," Samir uttered with worry lacing his deep voice and Sherlock contemplated what the best thing to say next was.

"Scotland Yard is a very competent establishment. John is also guarded by the police, and I'm certain you are supervised from afar by agents like we are, to ensure your safety."

"Yes. They've told me so," Samir replied somewhat clumsily and glanced at Sherlock.

"Mr. Ghaddar. As you know I'm John's flatmate, and a consulting detective. I'm investigating this next to the police and my results usually turn out to be satisfying. I will not deny it would be helpful to me if you told me all about this masked man who repeatedly threatened you," he ventured tentatively and watched how the haunted man looked like Sherlock was offering him a well when he was dying from thirst.

"Can you…Can you help me? Find that bastard and get him arrested?" he gasped with reborn hope and Sherlock basked in the faith in him.

"I'm very effective in my methods but I require details. Please sit down and tell me everything that's happened since that man walked into your restaurant for the first time. And don't be boring."


	24. The desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The want is growing between the heroes, but some relationship troubles appear.

As John was washing the cups and plates after meeting with Samir in the flat, he found himself grinning in pure contentment. The only sad thing about the unexpected guest was the reasons which had led him to visit in the first place, and maybe also the pathetic fact that the Lebanese restaurant owner was the only person beside John and Sherlock who had been to the flat after they moved in. Not that John planned on making Mycroft's flat a permanent home, but maybe he was becoming fond of it nevertheless. Maybe it wouldn't feel so strange if he invited Mrs. Hudson, Greg, and other pleasant people to a funny Christmas party.

John caught himself smiling again at his soapy hands as if they had brought him the biggest happiness in the world, so he reined in his enthusiasm and put down the plate he was currently holding to dry, if not a little domestic.

It had been brilliant to talk to someone for a long time, and the conversation had moved from topic to topic as both he and the, at first, tentative man lost their initial shyness.

The doctor had come home to see Sherlock listening intensely to what Samir was saying, but it was clear that they were almost finished with whatever they talked about. After John had said hello, Sherlock had summarized Samir's information and impressions of what he had been through when the anonymous gangster blackmailed him.

That wasn't pleasant to hear, and John hated seeing the usually joyful man sag with paranoia, though he remained calm for Samir's sake. What John _had_ done was profoundly apologizing for not contacting the man earlier after Mycroft and his men were done investigating Samir and the case. He was quite guilt-ridden when he clearly saw the state of the terrorized man, and forgot that his own life hadn't been easy either, until Sherlock subtly reminded him of that.

John and Samir had both suffered from criminal acts, but that essentially meant they were bound together. While Samir blamed himself for not warning John with more than blinking in Morse when the doctor came to have lunch and later failing to identify the accent of the masked man, John accused himself of getting Samir into unnecessary trouble by coming back to the place frequently, thus forcing Samir to repeatedly become a tool.

Sherlock had retorted in a condescending tone that both of them were idiots for feeling guilt for something neither could help when it was obvious that the real culprit was the gangster with the gun and poison. The detective had then retreated to the kitchen to prepare tea, with alarmingly loud noises, probably annoyed at the irrational behaviour of normal humans.

But in their solitude, John and Samir ended up mollifying each other, especially once it became clear that no-one had any hard feelings. They moved on to other things; things that didn't concern the trauma they had shared. With his patience, kindness and relaxed demeanour, John had even managed to coax Samir into opening the restaurant again, because the doctor missed his favorite lunch place.

Samir had brightened at the compliment and quietly pointed out that maybe he wouldn't make fish and chips for the doctor for some time, to which John had laughed and replied that maybe he didn't want fish and chips anyway. Sherlock had rolled his eyes in sufferance at the simple and uninspiring conversation before he dashed towards the kitchen again, apparently to find indispensable napkins.

As he finished doing the dishes, John emptied the sink from dishwater and bent his neck sideways to relax the muscles there.

"Your position was inadequate, and the bent back resulted in the strained muscles in your nape," a calm voice explained and John looked at the entrance to the kitchen where Sherlock leant into the doorway with an elegant look about him.

"Maybe it was the amount of time I spent doing all the dishes when you were off doing nothing," John retorted, though with a teasing tone Sherlock perceived.

"I served. Only fair if you took care of the cups," the detective finished triumphantly before crossing his arms before his chest. John dried his hands on a towel nearby and changed the subject.

"Interesting meeting Samir here today. Thanks for handling him before I got home."

A smirk grazed the alluring detective's lips. "So I managed to be civil to one of your acquaintances, then? Good to know I'm learning."

John chuckled at the amusing sarcasm and spun around to lean against the counter.

"Samir told us a great deal what happened behind that plastic curtain of his in the restaurant. Not so surprising that he's scared now," he mumbled with a serious tone and watched Sherlock's dark brows furrow.

"Yes, though he only added his own personal point of view on the case. He didn't actually share any information we don't already have."

Sherlock shifted in the doorway and his jaw tensed in an alarming way. John decided to interfere before the detective showed his frustration with the case.

"Hey, I just had an idea. How about throwing a Christmas party here in a few weeks? Even though I'm working on the clinic I'm still available in the evenings, just like the rest of our friends. I'm thinking of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and other people."

Ice-blue, winter-cold eyes pierced him from across the room and John trailed off. "You don't want a party?" he asked cautiously but Sherlock's shoulders slumped before dread rose in him.

"I suppose it could be tolerant, since it only occurs once a year. And I do have my laptop should I be bored… The elevator will enable Greg and Mrs. Hudson to easily get here."

"But? Sherlock, talk to me," John coaxed gently, sensing there was something the man kept to himself. Maybe that was why he lingered by the door, as if reluctant on entering the kitchen and coming close to John. Sherlock fingered the buttons on his jacket and huffed loudly, resembling a martyr.

"Who else will come, hmm? We don't have many other regular _friends_. Will you invite a whole bunch of ex-girlfriends, or what?" Sherlock asked haughtily and undid his jacket, left it open for three seconds before buttoning it again. John took a deep, strengthening breath, willing himself to not be irritated with Sherlock's obvious, naïve distress.

"Not many girls would be willing to spend hours with me here, I promise you that. That is not standard relationship procedure for normal people. An ex is an ex and isn't entitled to go to a Christmas party," John declared, slightly ashamed by the knowledge of just how many women there were i London that wouldn't be invited to the party. Then he relented, because they were probably better off without him anyway.

Sherlock toed the floor beneath the threshold. "So exactly who else is there who you consider worthy of an invitation?" he spat as disgust flashed over his face and made John tip his head and wonder with a half laughing voice, "Sherlock, are you jealous?"

If the tall man had been equipped with ears and tail, they would probably bend back by now. "No! Never. As if I… would submit to that primitive and purely illogical feeling," Sherlock squeaked and happened to slip on the threshold and land on the floor with clattering soles and non-existent fluidity. A broad smile spread on John.

"You are! You are jealous! For me?"

Colour bloomed on Sherlock's cheeks. Indignantly, and once more unbuttoning his jacket, he hissed, "Well, it's _your_ mysterious guests that will trample this flat and I have not grasped what kind of people they are, and God knows how they will react to alcohol and… John it's an established scientific fact that many people _hook up_ at Christmas parties, and with alcohol reducing the judgement in certain individuals…"

John lost the smile and grasped each elbow defensibly. "I'm not sure what you're implying here, Sherlock. That people wouldn't throw themselves at me unless if they're inebriated, or that I'll flirt with them even when I'm with you?"

He did in fact feel a bit insulted. Sherlock took a bold step forward and scowled, though his eyes darted cautiously. "John, you are jumping to conclusions. Yes, you are charming to people, sober or inebriated, but since we have not declared our relationship to the world, you are as far as they know single and no-one would see anything wrong in making a pass at you even though _I'm_ standing beside you! Add alcohol to the mix and it's bound to be an exceptionally memorable party. I can't predict how these _strangers_ will behave and I'd rather not have to fend them off if you find them delightful."

Okay, so maybe John's heart melted a bit at that declaration. He tilted his head and scratched his neck. The simple truth was easy to deliver. "I was thinking of maybe inviting Mike Stamford from Bart's, and Molly, colleagues from the clinic, that sort of thing. No ex-girlfriends. I'll be all yours that evening, I promise."

The last statement seemed to please and embarrass Sherlock. Several times he opened his mouth to speak only to close it. After a minute he inhaled and his entire shape seemed to alter from tense to shy and formal.

"Well, I see. Umm. So, a calm party then."

John nodded earnestly and awaited Sherlock's next move. The detective was studying the floor and looked young with his blushing cheeks.

"I guess I could live with that," Sherlock murmured and John decided to step into his personal space and tenderly placed his hands on the curves of Sherlock's waist.

"Good that you told me what was bothering you, so that we could sort it out together. But you don't have to worry about anyone whisking me away even if I'm laughing at their joke, or smiling at them. I'm with you, silly."

John nudged Sherlock's head up with his forehead and sought out the by blood accentuated lips. At first, Sherlock was tentative but after a while John felt his lips begin to work against his.

John pressed himself into the tall man and the close proximity had him reliving the very tempting snog on the sofa, which was why he, instead of plunging his tongue into Sherlock's wet cavern, nibbled delicately on his lower lip before leaning back an inch and emitted with his eyes on Sherlock's parted lips, "I'll come out soon. I can tell you when, so you know, too. I don't want to flirt with women when I'm with you. And I want the world to know that you're my boyfriend."

Sherlock's jaw flexed but his eyes were illuminated. "That pedestrian term…"

John pulled back in order to take a closer look at the detective and found that his expression was one of unabashed delight.

"I could learn to accept that term when it applies on us," Sherlock smiled and at once it wasn't a big deal when John followed Sherlock into his bedroom to spend the night there.

***

Saturday morning. Blessed weekend. And John made sure he made the most of his free hours. He had rolled over to Sherlock' side of the bed and bumped into the still sleeping detective which inevitably woke him up.

Without uttering a word, it was clear to both of them that they were in a certain kind of mood. In silence, John maneuvered Sherlock so the man straddled him, thus giving the virgin control over the level of intimacy and as Sherlock easily settled on his belly, John gasped at the tangible weight on him and what it caused for his fluttering insides.

But it was the man with the wild nest of black curls, wrinkled pajamas, and visibly tented trousers who surprised him next by skimming his warm fingers along the edge of John's t-shirt. Questioning grey eyes searched for his and John nodded stupidly, unable to disturb the silence when Sherlock sat on him and fiddled with his clothes.

Almost as if he was dragging it out on purpose, Sherlock bunched up the t-shirt and John arched, then lifted his arms and head to help pulling off the garment. The first thing Sherlock did once he had gotten John out of his shirt was scanning his torso and then purposely bending over John and diving in to taste the skin that created his scar on the back of his shoulder.

It happened so fast that John barely registered it, but then he felt the tongue there. A sharp gasp escaped him and all of a sudden he had a firm hand pressed against the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock tried to nip at the area with his teeth.

"Ahh! Sherlock…fuck!" John moaned before a violent tremble went through his body and the hand involuntarily relaxed its grip on Sherlock's hair. He gritted his teeth and dread washed over him as he sunk back onto the mattress, arousal vanishing.

Clearly confused by his response, Sherlock raised his head and looked into John's contorted face and his expression turned alarmed when John couldn't bear to meet his clueless gaze.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice was husky, maybe from sleep, maybe from excitement, but worried.

"Yeah?" the doctor whispered back brokenly and sniffled before covering his eyes with a hand. He heard the detective shift on him and at length Sherlock brought his head down to brush his soft lips over each of his displayed knuckles before John drew a shaky breath.

"What's wrong, John?"

John felt tears gather despite his firmly shut lids. This wasn't what he had planned, and it was his fault he was ruining their morning and he was swallowed by self-disgust at his weakness. He revealed in a broken whisper while keeping the hand as a barrier between him and Sherlock, "Of all the options…Sherlock, I can't understand you. Why would you want to lick my scar when there are so many other places on me to choose?"

He could sense how the body tensed above him and as the weight left him, he felt so rejected it was as if he had been stabbed in the heart. Moisture spread around his eyes when his palm caught the rolling tears. Mutely, the detective promptly pulled away John's sheltering hand and made him look into his eyes. He was still straddling John, just not sitting on him.

"John."

The golden-haired man sniffed and blinked up as he watched Sherlock's completely soft face. He should feel too exposed but that expression had him immobile on his back. Sherlock curiously tilted his head. "What do you see when you look at your scar?"

Frowning at the strange question, John bit his lip before replying with a strained voice, "Death. How close it was I didn't make it. Ugliness. Blood and pain, so much pain. And expensive therapy sessions." At the end, a corner of his mouth twitched upwards but he remained saddened and vulnerable.

Sherlock braced his torso by planting his elbows on the sheet on either side of John's head, and came to stretch his body over him, as if protecting him from everything in the outside world. He brought his face close and inspected the redness around John's eyes. "Can you guess what I see?" he mumbled.

"No idea; you're an unforeseeable bloke," John replied with some irony and peered up at the unaffected man.

"I see life."

John's eyes widened and his quivering mouth fell open. Sherlock went on. "I see you fighting your way back to life, and refusing to give up. That makes the scar beautiful, because it isn't remnants of a wound; it's a reminder of how your body and you fought to live so you had to develop new skin above the area. And furthermore," Sherlock said and lowered his head slowly to wait for John's reaction but the doctor didn't stop him, "although I don't believe in fate, this scar is, one among other reasons, how we came to meet at Bart's."

Sherlock's angled his face below John's left collarbone and sucked gently on the paler, star-shaped skin and John felt a ripple run through him, not so much from the sensations as from the sheer meaning behind the gesture. Sherlock mumbled with his lips still against his scar, "That is why I don't think it's marring you, John. The whole of you is beautiful to me."

He finished by planting a delicate kiss on the skin and leant back to evaluate his work and John's expression. Neither of them was aroused any longer, but John was more at ease and wiped away the dampness on his face, relieved although still a bit upset. Sherlock waited for him.

"Sherlock?"

A fragile smile graced John's lips and warmth spread inside as he took in the vision of Sherlock on all four leaning over him, neither repulsed or annoyed. Sherlock raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Hold me, please."

Without analyzing why, Sherlock cradled John to his chest and the doctor clung to him like a baby monkey, albeit a bit heavier and larger. It was nice to just hug Sherlock with a naked chest. Seemingly on instinct, Sherlock caressed the back of his neck soothingly and sometimes swept a fingertip insistently over the scar while John seemed to concentrate on taking deep, slow breaths.

"I'm holding you, I'm holding you," Sherlock reassured him and held him tight.

John needed Sherlock as much as the detective needed him.

***

"I'll have you know, young man, that I still have a few belongings of yours. I managed to save them from the fire by placing them in my nightgown."

Sherlock altered between being boundlessly excited and incredibly annoyed at the news. Naturally, he could have had used of those items earlier. Still, he more than anyone knew how to tread carefully around the lady who spoke in the phone. And he admitted he was keen on retrieving these small objects that undoubtedly were of importance to him simply by being his property.

"Mrs. Hudson, you are a star," he uttered fairly kindly and could hear faint clicks in his ear. Immediately he deduced that his former landlady was changing channels on her TV while talking to him and he scowled at that revelation. Wasn't he worth all her attention?

"Oh, you!" Mrs. Hudson admonished with a titter before finally spilling the beans and for once, Sherlock appreciated that she had a habit of telling things and gossip.

"It was just trinkets you'd misplaced in my flat. One of those magnifying glass of yours, a note with some scribbled words, and a photo of sooty fingerprints on a fire hose."

Unable to remain cool to the fact that Mrs. Hudson had saved a memento from the case with the Fake Firefighter, Sherlock's grimace melted into only a mildly impatient expression.

"Really? And pray tell why you didn't tell me this before."

The woman huffed. "I was waiting for you to get in touch with me before you found out I had something you might want. Apparently your affections have been exaggerated, because you, as opposed to John, haven't called me once since the fire."

Internally, Sherlock swore at the trap he found himself in. He had expected the call to only last so many minutes to inform her that she was invited to the Christmas party and he really wanted to get back to his current case but now he was bound to spend at least half an hour grovelling for the lady to be able to secure his possessions. He sighed and breached the subject.

"How are you?" The mundane, superfluous phrase left a bitter taste in his mouth and he shuddered.

A delighted squeal was heard. "I'm alright. I'm staying at a friend but after the holidays I plan to start looking for a new house, preferably one where I can live and have tenants. But there aren't that many houses available with rooms on the first floor and you know how my hip bothers me…"

The lady droned on while Sherlock suffered in silence and repeatedly reminded himself why he was torturing himself.

'A magnifying glass of the best quality, a memento for the archive. You can do this. It isn't worse than the Christmas dinners with Mycroft and the family.'

In the end, he lasted precisely nineteen minutes before cutting off the talkative lady who had warmed up considerably after the 'dialogue'.

"I expect you to bring my things when you come for the party."

Sherlock undid the knot he had managed with his contorted body limbs, a position on the floor beside John's bed which many yoga enthusiasts would have envied him for. Mrs. Hudson exclaimed in an animated tone, "Will that handsome police boy come too? Don't think I missed him in the papers. So sad how the journalists treated him. Frankly, I think they do resemble vultures sometimes."

Sherlock shot a pleading look in direction to the door, wishing against hope that John would for some reason leave the clinic at ten o'clock and come home and save him from the lengthy conversation. His fingers itched to go through the online documents he had _found_ in Scotland Yard's system concerning the investigation on the murdered Mrs. Johnson and her nail polish.

"Lestrade will be present. You can sync your arrivals by taking the lift together!" he all but gritted out and swept his fringe aside with born elegance.

"Oh, speaking of injuries!" Sherlock fisted his hand and prayed for patience, "How is John doing now?"

The question invoked a tiny smile but Sherlock was careful to not let on anything. "He is fine. Working again and everything. He's struck a deal with a restaurant owner nearby the clinic; he'll give the man extra tip for his lunch and the owner will in return give him a discount on the meal."

That information was true, although completely illogical to Sherlock but he supposed it was related to gestures of compensation from both parts. John and Samir would remain friends despite the horrors they had been through.

"Why on earth would he do that for?" Mrs. Hudson inquired and Sherlock grinned and observed the blue sky outside. He wouldn't share recent details about the fire case with her but he quickly came to the conclusion that an honest answer nevertheless wouldn't hurt. "Because he's a nice man."

Mrs. Hudson agreed earnestly. "That he is. Oh, look at the time. Well, I'll be delighted to visit your new home in a few weeks, and send John my love."

Suddenly suspicious at the unexpected turn of events, Sherlock frowned and shot up and skidded to the kitchen in pursuit of the scattered papers. There must be a reason to why the little lady wanted to hang up al of a sudden in the middle of a marathon conversation. And the clever detective had already concluded that she was seated in front of a TV.

"I'll certainly do that, and I'm glad you are well despite the strange autumn," he rambled absently as he simultaneously searched for the proper pages with his free hand. There, the TV guide. Busted. 'Ha! Fawlty Towers shows at 10.00 a.m.'

Somehow he was stung that the lady preferred stupid series over talking to him but he hid the feeling by pursing his lips imperiously.

"Bye, Mrs. Hudson, and enjoy your simpleton comedy," he drawled and hung up just in time to capture an indignant "Sherlock!"

He treated himself to a brimming glass of milk after that accomplishment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive and well! Sorry for the absence, but it's been mad with university and assignments. Honestly, my only free time is in the weekends and during those I'm either preparing work for the next week, or relaxing because I'm too tired to write stories. Sad but true. So I sincerely hope that you all will be understanding if it takes time for me to update. I have a major essay that will be submitted by December, and then another in January so I'm just warning you; I might not be able to update until the middle of December. My bachelor depends on these essays. But on the other hand, the new chapter could be a Christmas present to you for being so kind. And I do welcome comments, you know. :)


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